Amara arrived at eleven with a paper bag from the good bakery on the far side of campus the expensive one, which meant she was either feeling guilty about something or very worried, and Zara had learned to read the difference but this morning couldn’t quite manage it.
“You look like you’ve been working since six,” Amara said, setting the bag down and looking at the notebook with an expression of mingled respect and concern.
“Seven. Eat something. What is it?”
“Croissants.” Amara sat on the bed, peeling one apart, looking at the page from a distance that was carefully not close enough to read it. “Behavioral profile?”
“Something like that.”
“And?”
“And I know more than I thought I did. Less than I need to.” Zara reached for the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago and drank it anyway
