She was exactly what her letters had promised.
Seventeen years old. Brynn's grandmother height and Brynn's grandmother energy — the directness, the specific stillness of someone who looked at things until they understood them. Her hair was out and her coat was too big for her shoulders and she had a printed and annotated copy of my protocols paper under her arm like a weapon.
She saw me from across The Records' northern corridor entrance court and she walked directly to me without preamble.
"Dr. Voss Ashveil," she said.
"Evie," I said.
She held out the paper.
"Fourteen months of annotations," she said. "I started reading it the week I put the footnote on my wall. I've been through it six times."
I took it.
Opened it.
The margins were full.
Not neatly — the way a student annotated
