Chapter 13: H-TIME

The phone was heavy and cold from his coat.

"It needs a code," I said.

"It's your birthday," Stewart said. "It has been since I got the phone."

I looked up at him.

He looked at the traffic.

I typed the numbers, and the screen woke.

It was full of alerts, all of them from the last nine hours, stacked and unread.

I swiped them away.

"Where do I look?"

"I don't know," he said. "That's why I'm asking."

I sat down on the low wall outside the clinic and opened his calendar.

It was a thicket of color, every hour of his week filled in.

At the bottom of the screen was a list of calendars, each with a little colored dot.

One said Work.

One said Personal.

The third was called H-TIME, and its owner was listed underneath in small gray letters: D. Stroud.

"Stewart," I said. "Who is H?"

He did not answer.

I tapped it.

The screen turned a pale, even green.

Every box on it was mine.

There was an entry for each Tuesday dinner, and every one was labeled Hannah, 40 min.

Under each one was a note, and the notes were the same.

Leave at 8:15.

I scrolled back a year, then two, then six.

The dinners stretched back to the first month he made partner.

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