A leather notebook full of measurements.

A map marked with red crosses.

It looked, I have to admit, just like the kind of scene that ends a certain type of television episode, and I watched my sensible, easygoing husband’s face cycle through confusion and then something closer to alarm as he processed it.

I feel I should say something here in defense of how the scene looked, because I have made myself out to be quite foolish and I want to be fair to the version of me who was standing in that room.

It really did look bad.