The notebook’s middle becomes a proof.

Temperature at dusk. Temperature now. The drop is a stair. Booms sit on the stair. Ice-pings sit on the stair. You draw a tiny graph that would make a teacher weep with joy and Ellis snort.

“Ice is a better drummer than a ghost,” Ellis admits, which is a sentence Ellis will deny in daylight and remember anyway.

Priya would photograph the graph with a cracked phone corner. You copy it twice in case cocoa attacks.

Outside, the tarn still wants a climax. The grate still wants a respectful outside visit with numbers in hand.

The graph is ugly and true. Drops in temperature sit like stairs. Booms sit on the stairs like boots. Ellis’s snort is also data: even a believer can hear a drum when you draw the drum.