The gray line was still there on Monday, sitting at the bottom edge of my vision like a sticky note somebody had slapped on the inside of my eyeball and forgotten to peel off.
Resonance load: 8.4 / 9. Graft upkeep recalculation pending.
I had stared at it on the ferry until Naomi fell asleep on my shoulder, and I had stared at it again at breakfast while Belle stole my bacon. It never changed, and it never explained itself, and by Monday afternoon I had decided that ignoring it was a valid strategy. I had a deadline that could actually hurt me, and the graft could wait in line.
Dr. Cross wanted two thousand words on adaptive engagement in transition biomes. She also wanted an extra thousand from me personally, a firsthand account of standing on a sea monster's forehead, because she was a sadist in a pencil skirt. That added up to three thousand words on a forehead, due Tuesday morning at eight, and at eleven fifty-two on Monday night I had four hundred and six of them.
