Edmund insisted on writing it down immediately.
Not because of urgency—there was no sense of alarm in him—but because delay, he said, introduced distortion. Memory softened things. Time rearranged emphasis. If the Slicer's condition mattered, then it mattered as it was, not as it would later be remembered.
They sat at the small table in Marron's room. Edmund took the chair; Marron leaned against the wall, arms folded, the Blade resting upright beside her like a silent witness.
Lucy hovered closer than usual, her glow steady and watchful.
Edmund spread several sheets of thick paper across the table and set his pen down with deliberate care. "I'll read back each section," he said, "and you'll correct me if I misunderstand."
Marron nodded. "Okay."
He began with the facts.
Date. Time. Location of observation. Presence of witnesses—human and tool. Conditions of containment. Prior baseline behavior of the Slicer.
