The hours until evening moved as if through syrup. Lina sat at her desk, notebooks open, pen in hand, without producing a single meaningful line. Each tick of the clock didn't change time, only her awareness of how little she could control it. Again and again, her gaze wandered to her phone. The last message stood there, clear, concise, as if etched: Maybe.
Downstairs in the kitchen, other hands worked against uncertainty. Sabine washed the large casserole dishes, put roast in the oven, peeled potatoes in a rhythm that should have been more calming than it was. Markus set the table so meticulously, as if order could be forced by placing the fork exactly two fingers' width from the edge of the plate. Tom repeatedly kicked the ball against the doorframe until Sabine's glance stopped him, then he juggled it on his thighs, tongue between his teeth, mumbling game scores like incantations.
"Put on something fresh," Sabine said without looking up. "It's almost time."
