Bay 3 had nine people in it by nine o'clock. The space was twice the size of Lab 7, high-ceilinged and cold, with high-bay sodium fixtures throwing long, yellowed rectangles across the sealed concrete. Heavy yellow caution tape pinned down the secondary sensor lines running between the main floor console and the test pedestal. Dana was on the floor with a tablet, talking over the shoulder of the integration lead. "Mercer. Hayes." Dana didn't look up from her screen. "Grab coffee if you want it. Integration has primary control for the rehearsal sequence. Stand by the auxiliary telemetry bank in case someone asks about the vibration log." "Understood," I said. Luke was already near the peripheral bench, leaning back against the steel edge with a paper cup of black coffee. He wore his usual gray shop shirt, sleeves pushed past his wrists, safety glasses hanging by their cord around his neck. When I walked up, he nodded once, sliding a cardboard coaster two inches to the right to make room for my travel mug. "How's the pedestal?" I asked. "Checked yesterday afternoon," he said. "Isolators settled a little overnight. Still well within spec." At nine-fifteen, the integration tech on the main board reached for the primary hydraulic stage. My attention tracked his hand out of habit—two weeks of living on that specific breaker—before catching myself. The tech flipped the toggle. The hydraulic manifold engaged with a sharp mechanical thunk, the line pressure gauges jumping smoothly to operating range. On the secondary console, the four vibration channels held a flat, dull baseline. No spikes. Ten minutes in, the load motor spun up to twenty-five hundred RPM. The newly milled aluminum bracket held rigid against the frame, absorbing the chatter without a blip. Nobody called our names. Nobody looked over at the peripheral bench. "Thermal loop is stable," the integration lead called out to Dana. "Telemetry packet is clean." "Good," Dana said, tapping her screen. "Run the second stage load profile. Claire, Luke, you're clear. If we need you, we'll page the desk, but this looks like a standard pass." "Understood," I said. Luke tossed his empty paper cup into the metal bin by the door. "See you around, Mercer." "You too, Hayes." He took the corridor toward Hardware; I caught the stairwell back to Systems. By two o'clock, the report hit my inbox: Stage 2 complete, Stage 3 passed without intervention, project officially released for commercial documentation. I filed the sign-off memo in three clicks and spent the rest of the afternoon auditing sensor calibration profiles that had been gathering dust since July. The front deadbolt released at six-thirty with its usual quiet click. "Welcome home, Claire," NELL said from the entry ceiling. "Jessalynn Mercer is scheduled to arrive at your door within eighteen minutes." "I know," I said, dropping my work bag on the hall bench and kicking off my boots. My phone buzzed against the table. [Luke Hayes]: "Bay 3 wrapped. Mike says Dana almost took out the primary console with a travel mug at hour four." I typed back while walking into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. [Claire]: "Good to know our work survived caffeine hazards. Jess is bringing laundry. We all have problems." [Luke Hayes]: "Godspeed, Mercer." I dropped the phone on the quartz island. A loud double-thud echoed from the hallway outside, followed by the heavy, metallic scrape of an object hitting the drywall. "Claire!" Jess’s voice drifted through the door before the handle even turned. "Unlock it, my fingers are dying!" I opened the door. Jess was half-buried under a bulging canvas hamper overflowing with towels, dark hoodies, and a tangled neon sleeve of leggings. Strapped across her shoulder was a lime-green duffel bag that looked like it had been packed with a tire iron. Behind her in the carpeted hallway stood a tall, skinny boy with uncombed dark hair, an oversized corduroy jacket, and an acoustic guitar case gripped awkwardly in both hands. "We made it," Jess announced, dropping the canvas hamper straight onto the entry mat with a heavy thud of denim. "This is Toby. Toby has a car with actual trunk space." Toby raised the guitar case two inches in greeting, looking around the flat like he wasn't sure if his shoes were clean enough for the floorboards. "Hi. Nice to meet you." "Toby," I said, stepping back to let them through. "Jessalynn Mercer," NELL announced flatly from overhead. "The residential washer's maximum rated capacity remains unchanged since your previous visit." Jess kicked the door shut with her heel and gave the ceiling vent a hostile glare. "Nobody asked you, robot." Toby froze in the middle of the hallway, eyes darting between the recessed lights and the guitar case in his hands. "Did your ceiling just tell your sister she has too many clothes?" "Yes," I said, reaching into the hamper to pull out a red sweatshirt before it could bleed into the white towels. "Set the guitar by the credenza, Toby. Jess, start the sorting." Jess collapsed onto the end of the sofa, letting out a theatrical groan of exhaustion. "I had a midterm at ten and Professor Bennett thinks three thousand words on research ethics is a reasonable Friday assignment. Toby, tell her Bennett is a tyrant." "Bennett's pretty rough," Toby offered from the credenza, carefully propping the case against the wall. "He assigns things from the syllabus," I said, tossing two dark loads toward the hallway closet. "The horror." The entry rug was covered in canvas bags, the washer was going to run for four hours, and my living room smelled of outside dampness and cheap college coffee. I picked up the detergent bottle, measured the cap, and started the first cycle.

Chapter 25: Bay 3