The cup went through his hand at breakfast.
Not out of it. Through the space where his fingers were supposed to close, because the fingers arrived a quarter second after the reach did, and by then the cup was already on its way down.
It broke on the tile.
Six people looked at it.
"Wet hands," said Soren.
Nobody argued with him, which was worse than arguing.
◆◆◆◆
He went out to the yard afterward and measured it, because the only honest thing to do with a defect is put a number on it.
Ice alone, fine. Fire alone, fine. Both together, fine.
Shadow on top of both, and the middle of him went flat and cold at fifty seconds and he had to drop Maren's channel to stay upright.
He ran it twice more. Fifty-two. Forty-eight.
In the spring he had held four channels for eleven minutes in a stairwell with blood running off his chin.
He walked back inside and mentioned it to nobody.
◆◆◆◆
Mona came for him on the fourth day.
