Chapter 6 — The Wrong Chair （Beck）
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I took the bad chair with my back to the door so Nora could have the one facing it, and the radiator hissed like it approved.
I chose the seat with the window at my back. The glass threw cold through my shirt while the radiator pushed hot at my front. I pressed my forearms to the oak edge and let the hard line hold me in place. The overheads buzzed white and steady over the table.
I mapped the room the way I map a front. Door behind me, windows black to my left, radiator under the sill ticking hard. I counted the chairs, two, and the cups, one left from last time, and the pens, four, all squared. “Even holds,” I said to the empty room. “Clean lines. Somewhere to land.”
The windows showed our doubles before she came. I watched my own reflection sit with its shoulders up. The wind hit the glass in gusts and the dry leaves scratched past outside on the Whitmore steps. I took three breaths and felt the third one catch on the hot metal smell.
I heard her on the stairs before I saw her. The door opened and the hall air cut in cold for half a second. Nora Quinn came in windblown with her hair pulled loose at one side and her hands wrapped tight around her cup. “You even set the chairs?” she said, looking between them.
“Take that one. You'll like that one,” I said it fast and tipped my chin at the door chair. I kept my hands flat on the table so I would not point. I felt my jaw work once before the words came out right.
“You took the bad chair. Don't — is this a — chivalry thing, Hale?” she asked, and she stayed standing with her cup steaming up into her face. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and her hair lifted when the radiator blew. She eyed the seat with her head cocked.
“It's not — I just need the — never mind. Start with the blitz card,” I said, and I slid the top card across without looking up. I felt heat climb the back of my neck while the hiss filled the gap. I tapped the corner of the card twice to square it.
She sat and the chair scraped soft. “Thanks. God, it's hot in here,” she said, and she set her cup down and blew across it. The cinnamon rose up thin and then went flat and cold at the edges. She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it square on the chair back.
I watched her hands. They were red at the knuckles from the cold outside. “Your hands are cold,” I said, before I could weigh it. “Sorry. I mean — you've got — the cup helps, right?” I felt my ears burn and I looked at the card instead.
“Yeah, human hand-warmer special,” she said, and she curled both palms around the cup and smiled quick. “Oat latte, extra shot, gone cold on the walk. Still counts.” She nudged the blitz card straight with one finger. “Okay. Show me how you see it.”
I laid three cards in a row. “Safety walks down late. Backers shift strong. I see it as — shapes first,” I said, and I drew the routes in the air with my pen tip. “X runs a post like that. Z bends under. It makes a — like a constellation tilting.” I stopped when my voice went thin.
“Like stars?” she asked, and she leaned in with her chin near her cup. “Say more. I like when you — when it's pictures first.” She pulled her notebook close and clicked her pen once, soft. I felt my shoulders drop half an inch.
“Give me one,” she said. “One constellation. Just — show me.” I drew the X post first, then the Z under.
“There. See it tilt?” I said. “Orion if he — ran slants.” She laughed soft.
“Okay, that's — kind of perfect,” she said.
“You should've led with that. Weeks ago.” I shrugged.
“Didn't have — the words then,” I said. “Still don't, mostly.” “You've got enough,” she said. “Trust me.”
We worked the blitz into psych terms because that was the deal. “So retrieval under pressure,” she said, and she tapped the card. “You've got too many cues at once. How do you chunk it?” I stared at the three lines until they settled. “Color and shape,” I said. “Green means go. Red means no.”
“So green's go,” she said. “Yellow's wait.
Red's — throw it away?” I nodded. “Red's crowded. No lane, no — no force,” I said.
“Pruitt calls it discipline. I call it — pictures gone tight.” She wrote discipline down and circled it.
“Same thing, then,” she said. “Different words.” “Same thing,” I said.
“Yours sounds — smarter, though.” “Keep talking, Hale,” she said.
“And yellow?” she asked, quick, and her eyes cut to me. “You've said green before. What's yellow for you?” I pressed my forearms harder to the table edge. “Yellow's — slow. Wait. Look again,” I said. “I live in yellow a lot.” My voice came out low and even.
The radiator spiked and the hiss went sharp. I felt it start at the base of my skull and run down. I pulled three breaths in through my nose and let them out slow. In, two, three. Out, two, three. “Watch the window,” I told myself. “Breathe with the double. Steady.”
“You're doing that breathing thing. Three — you're counting, huh?” she asked soft, and she did not move her eyes off her notes. Her voice stayed light, like she was naming the weather. I nodded once and felt my chest loosen half a notch. “Yeah,” I said. “Three helps.”
Pruitt ran that blitz look Thursday and I kept the picture clean in my head. I drew it from memory in three lines. “Nose shades strong. Will creeps up. Safety stays high till the snap,” I said, and my pen moved steady. “Then he drops. The picture flips.” I set the pen down square when I finished.
She started clicking while she thought. It began soft, one click, then fast, click-click-click. “Sorry, I'm clicking again, aren't I? I don't even — ugh,” she said, and she kept clicking while she stared at the card. Each click landed louder than the last one inside my head.
I tapped two fingers on my left wrist without deciding to. Tap-tap. The clicks kept coming. My teeth found the inside of my cheek and my shoulders pulled up toward my ears. The overhead light felt louder. The hiss felt higher. “Stay on the shapes,” I breathed. “Hold the middle line. Hold it.”
The pen spiked straight through me. My hand covered hers once, by instinct, and stilled it. Her knuckles were warm under my palm for one second. We both froze at the contact and held our breath as one. The radiator hissed on without us.
“Don't — sorry. I didn't — your hand. Sorry,” I said, and I lifted my hand fast like the table had gone hot. My palm buzzed where it had touched her skin. I set my hand back on my own knee and pressed hard. I could not look at her yet.
“Your hand's — warm. Don't — I mean. Thanks. For — not freaking out,” she whispered, and her voice shook once at the edge. She set the pen down slow with her other hand, like it might go off. Her chest rose and held and then let go.
“Didn't mean to grab. You clicked and I — sorry. Won't do it again,” I said, and I finally met her eyes for half a second. Her pupils looked big in the white light. My throat felt tight and my words came short. “I should've — used words.”
“It's okay. Really. Just — warn a girl next time, huh?” she said, and she tried to smile and almost made it. She tucked the loud pen into her bag and zipped it shut. The click of the zipper sounded clean and final. She flexed her fingers once.
“I'll ask. Words, not — not guesses. That's the deal,” I said, and I nodded to make it hold. I squared the two good pens again because my hands needed the line. I felt my pulse in my fingertips when I touched the plastic. I lined them twice.
“Yellow. I'm — it's loud. Say yours if you've got one,” I said, blunt, because I owed her plain. The lights hummed over us and the wind shoved at the windows. My face felt hot while my back stayed cold from the glass. I kept my eyes on the table edge.
“Yellow too. We'll go slow. Pen's down, see? No more — click-click,” she said, steady, and she lifted both hands to show me empty palms. Then she laced her cold fingers back around the cup instead. The steam curled up past her chin. She did not pick the pen back up.
Quiet settled over the table. I heard the radiator tick and the wind shove and her cup tap once when she set it down. I watched our reflections doubled in the black window instead of looking straight at her. Her reflection watched my reflection back. Neither of us named it.
“Say it again,” she said. “The underneath lane. Slower,” I breathed once and pointed with my capped pen.
“Triangle left. Two high, one low. I take the — soft middle,” I said.
“I don't stare the star down. I let him — clear it out.” She nodded fast. “That's trust,” she said.
“You've got more of that than you think.” “Trying,” I said. “Yellow, but — trying.”
Work resumed slower. “Okay, so — chunking,” she said, soft. “If the safety drops, what's your first picture?” I pointed with my capped pen, not touching the card. “Triangle left. Two over one,” I said. “I throw the underneath lane. I don't force the star route.” My voice sounded rough to me.
“Piece by piece is fine,” I said. “You still get there. You just take the — long route.” She snorted and shook her head.
“Long route, huh? You're kind of a jerk, Hale,” she said.
“Keep talking like that and I'll start charging extra.” I felt my mouth pull.
“Worth it,” I said. “Yeah?” she said. “Yeah,” I said. “You're — worth it.”
“That's good. That's — really good,” she said, and she wrote it down in her neat lines. “You see the whole thing at once, don't you? I have to — build it piece by piece.” She underlined triangle twice. Her handwriting leaned left when she hurried.
I stayed though overloaded because leaving would end the hour early. The lights felt loud on my skin. The hiss sat high in my ears. My forearms ached from pressing the table. “I am staying right here,” I said. “Feet flat. Back to the door. Bad chair and all.”