NOAH
The car didn't turn toward the glass-and-steel monolith of the office. It didn't merge into the lane that led toward the familiar, high-altitude silence of Cassian's world.
Instead, the driver took a smooth, practiced turn into a neighborhood that felt jarringly domestic.
I watched the street signs blur past, familiar corners, the deli with the flickering sign, the laundromat. "Why are we going to my place?"
Cassian didn't look up from his tablet. "It's Saturday."
He said it as if it were a fundamental law of physics, like the rotation of the earth or the pull of the tide. He spoke as if I should have been tracking the days with the same meticulous rigor he used to track market fluctuations.
I blinked, processing the word.
Saturday.
