My physical strength is coming back, steady and sure, a little more every single morning. The weakness from chemo that once dragged at my limbs is finally burning off, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that has kept me glued to the clubhouse table since sunrise.
Locke leans over my shoulder, his large hand resting flat on the back of my chair. The warm and familiar scent of cedarwood wraps around me as he studies the dual screens on my laptop.
“You’re onto something,” he mutters, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jaw before dropping back to the wood. “Look at that power draw.”
“It looks crazy, but it’s not a mistake,” I say, my fingers flying across the trackpad to isolate the regional grid feed. “I’ve been cross-referencing the municipal utility spikes against the regional transp
