The world aggregate cost reached eleven on a Tuesday.
Oren announced it at the oversight board session.
His mother noted it without comment.
The session covered its regular business.
Afterward he walked the Ashrow for a long time.
Not thinking specifically.
Receiving.
The practice of the presence.
Eleven.
He had been measuring the world's cost against Oren's descriptions since the first reading. A hundred and twelve had been weather. Seventy-eight after the wellspring opened had been a storm beginning to clear. Fifty-three had been a grey morning where you could see the shapes of things. Thirty-one had been specific problems with addressable solutions. Seventeen had been the world remembering something.
Eleven felt like a door left ajar.
Not open.
Not closed.
Ajar.
