Sura arrived at noon.
She came the way she always comes — without announcement, without ceremony, with a bag that looks too small for everything it contains and the particular energy of someone who has done this before and knows exactly how much time there is and will waste none of it.
"Sit," she said before she'd fully come through the door.
I sat.
She spent forty minutes doing what she calls calibration, which involves her hands on specific points along my spine and shoulders, her eyes closed, her breathing in a pattern I've never been able to replicate. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel like much of anything from the inside. But every time she finishes, something in my ability runs cleaner, like a lens that's been adjusted.
"Your threshold signal is very close," she said when she wa
