"I know what it is," he said finally.
"I know you know," she said. "I'm asking if you're going to do anything with the knowing."
He looked at the window. The one with the fixed latch.
"I'm forty-two," he said. "You're nineteen."
"You've said that twice now," she said. "Both times as if it's a conclusion rather than a fact." She kept her voice even, no impatience in it. "It's a fact. It's not automatically a conclusion. Those are different."
He looked at her.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said. The most honest thing he'd said out loud since *I don't go by here seven times a rotation because of you,* which he hadn't actually said, which was the problem.
"Okay," she said.
"That's a significant admission for me."
"I know," she said. "I know it is. I've been watching you be very co
