MARCO
The north wall is going to be finished by Friday.
I stand on the scaffolding at the east corner with the morning cold working through my coat and I watch my crew lay the upper parapet course, and I do the math in my head for the fourth time since sunrise. Materials against days. Days against hands. Hands against Friday.
The answer has not changed since the first time. It never does. I run it again anyway, because running it gives my hands something to hold while I think, and I have never once thought well without something to hold. Corvin learned that about me thirty years ago. It is why he gives me folders in meetings even when he already knows I have memorized the contents.
