At eight thirty I set up at the apartment table with the spreadsheets I’d been putting together for a week.

Green highlighter for the duty dates.

Red pen for the wires.

Yellow for anything I couldn’t pin down yet.

Enzo had hung a paper sack of bread on my doorknob, and I ate a heel of it on my feet while the radiator clanked.

By nine the page was telling me a story I didn’t want to hear.

Green, green, green, green.

Nine red circles, every one of them sitting inside the green.