Chapter 18: Sunset Chart

Dot spread a sunset chart across my drafting table at nine the next morning and weighted the corners with four jars of Emmett's jam.

"Tomorrow, 7:10 p.m., the sun hits the west face at nineteen degrees," she said.

"I walked the whole sixtieth floor with a protractor and a flask."

"Dot."

"Pane fourteen goes gold for a minute or two. Your initials and the date show up like a brand."

She tapped the chart with a blunt finger.

"That's the only light that works. If you walk across that floor at five past seven, you're standing in front of it at ten past."

"And Bryce?"

"Bryce will be on the stage with a trophy in his hand, saying thank you to a woman who can't read a section."

Emmett, holding a plate of toast, said, "That's my favorite sentence of the week."

I looked at the chart.

It was a good plan.

It was Dot's plan, and it was a plain, useful, sunlit plan, and I loved it.

"I don't want anyone to rescue me," I said. "I'll walk across that floor myself."