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“I didn’t say that.”

Then the distinction remains incomplete.

“Elliot wants control.”

The cursor stopped.

For some reason, saying it here felt far worse than when I thought it back in Flint’s office.

“Flint wants me to come back.”

Another pause.

Better.

I stared at the word. “You are an asshole.”

Probably.

I snorted. “Glad we settled that.”

Your question.

“Yes.”

You asked why Simon?

He remembered. Of course he did.

“I did.” I tapped one foot against the leg of the desk. “Are you going to answer?”

Yes.

I waited.

Nothing.

“You know, timing is part of communication.”

I am aware.

I folded my arms.

Eventually, words appeared.

Simon was the first person who taught me that being correct and being believed are unrelated conditions.

The humor vanished from the room. I read the sentence again. There was more there. Far more.

He’d named a person, an origin, maybe even a wound or—maybe just maybe—another carefully selected narrativie.

“Who was he?”

Another question.

“Call it follow-up.”

No.