Theodore Hale came to Marcus’s office on a Thursday morning without being summoned.
That alone was notable. Theodore did very little voluntarily. For thirty years, the shape of his impulses had belonged to someone else — subtle, persistent influence from the man who had stood just outside his awareness and taught him, piece by piece, to mistake arrangement for choice.
In the months since the reckoning on his kitchen floor, Theodore had been learning to tell the difference. What he wanted. What he had been guided to want. The distinction required constant calibration.
He was getting better.
He knocked. He waited. He entered when Marcus told him to and sat down across the desk without being asked.
“The network has gone quiet.”
Marcus set down his pen.
“Tell me.”
Theodore placed a sin
