"There are three possible places to pick up stitches:

  a cast-on or bound-off edge, a side edge,

  or along an angle or curve.

  For each, there are two decisions:

  where to poke the needle, and how often."

  —MODERN DAILY KNITTING (March 28, 2018)

  //Codex Tag

  function inscribeAnnotation019(content=

  /* Books and knitting share this: the best place to reconnect a loose thread is always from the edge. */

  codex.updateEntry("On Knitting | A stitch in time saves nine. But if you drop one, best to pull back and try again.");

  }

  When Remi awoke, he could barely move. His health bar was blinking on and off, and the sliver of red was nearly impossible to see. It took all of his focus to reach into his bag and pull out his leftover lunch. The remaining contents spilled onto the floor. Remi patted around, not looking until he felt the rectangular shape of the power bar. He unwrapped it and jammed it into his mouth. After about a minute, his health stopped climbing; he was back to about 10% health. It wasn't great, but enough that he could sit up.

  He really needed to find a solution to heal fast. He dug in the murse again, this time looking for the snack drawer. While he had the cookie, it didn’t feel right to eat it yet. And while he was sad that he likely would waste the endurance and wisdom buff the granola had given him, it wasn’t like he had much choice. After a rustle of leather and a grunt later, his fingers brushed against cold metal. He wrestled it free, revealing another dented thermos. Oh, no! The last one had literally been kerosene.

  The note attached said, “Tea steeped for 12 hours. Drink fast. Ignore the taste. You’ll thank me later.” A close inspection revealed the following description:

  [Faculty Thermos: Herbal Catastrophe Blend]

  +85 HP over 10 seconds

  Lingering aftertaste and bad breath for 2 minutes

  Remi unscrewed the top and could smell the pine right away. It looked worse than it smelled, which was saying something. The liquid was a murky brown-green, like leftover water from a Christmas tree stand. He gave it a cautious swirl, and flakes of something unidentifiable clung to the rim. Was that bark? Licorice root? Whatever it was, it was still warm, and he knew he was going to drink it. He raised it like a shot glass at the world’s saddest holiday party.

  “Bottoms up.”

  The moment it hit his mouth, he knew what was worse than how it looked. It tasted like someone had ground up the entire tree—pine, sap, needles—and filtered it through a sweat sock. It was sweet, pungent, and utterly disgusting. But as promised, it also tasted…slightly of mint. He kept drinking. Like he was at a college frat party. Chug, chug, chug. He knew if he stopped, even for a second, he would not start again. The liquid burned. From the heat, from the pine, from the healing. Eventually, he finished it all, and with watering eyes and a raw tongue, he was relieved to see his health rapidly climb.

  Remi took the time needed for the potion to work to look around the office. It was empty, and he discovered an envelope on the counter addressed to him. His name was in cursive, with elegant loops, so he assumed it was in Astrid’s handwriting. He tore the envelope open and looked at the note. As expected, it’s short and to the point.

  Nino,

  Glad you didn’t die. You “unfortunately” missed the vice-principal.

  He had to engage in some observation.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Consider your detention served. Don’t forget about PE class.

  —Astrid.

  P.S. You still have the cookie, don’t you? Eat it. It’s time.

  Remi paused, out for observation. He remembered the shadow near the dome of the arena. The giant bird was watching through the glass ceiling. That must have been him. He gathered the remnants of his lunch scattered on the floor. Slipped the juice boxes back into the murse, and opened the bag containing the cookie. He could smell the cinnamon and oatmeal and raisins. It reminded him of coming home from school to Grandma’s kitchen: warm air, soft light, cookies cooling on parchment. As he took a bite, the warmth spread through him. Not just from the cookie itself, but from the memories it created. He drifted there, eyes closed, savouring the sweetness, the raisins, and the sense of home.

  The taste lingered. It evoked a sense of home, of safety, and of belonging, but then the air fractured like glass. When he finally opened his eyes, the office was gone, and what replaced it wasn’t familiar. This wasn’t his grandmother’s house, nor his life. In fact, this wasn’t even his memory. He could feel it. The memory wasn't quite right. He was here, but as a passenger, an outsider looking in.

  Flickering fluorescents buzzed overhead, and somewhere offscreen, a bell rang with the flat, soulless tone of a school no one wanted to attend. Remi turned, and there, hunched on the ground, across the room, back pressed to the wall, a woman sat with a holographic keyboard in her lap. Her shoulders were squared, face half in shadow, edged in a neon purple from the illuminated threads woven throughout her hoodie. In class, Remi would have described it as limned in neon lines, but knew that the vocab was probably a bit too obscure.

  “Nel?” She didn't respond, unaware of his presence; it’s clear that he was a ghostly bystander. Reguardless, Remi approached hesitantly.

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE]

  ECHO-VIEW MODE: Observation Only

  Even though he couldn’t touch anything he felt compelled to get as close as he could to her.

  The room itself was sterile. White walls, white floor, and clinical light. It was blue and uncomfortably electric. He settled himself next to her, also placing his back against the wall to see what she was doing on her computer.

  In front of him was a screen filled with video feeds, each one flickering on some kind of playback loop. She was watching them. Dozens of squares stretched across her display. Most showed a version of this room, this exact bunker, but with slight variations: the lighting, the date code, her position in the frame. In one she was slumped, in another she paced, and in a third she hugged her knees while watching something unseen on screen. Several feeds showed more active scenes. In one, she ate a stale-looking ration while typing rapidly between bites. In another, she fought a massive troll. She dodged, wove, and landed perfect counterstrikes; the salivating monstrosity didn’t have a chance. In the corner of the grainy footage, a fuzzy Nel peeled away from the edge of the frame, almost part of the static, and just long enough to trail a blurred finger along the CRISPR’s casing. It paused, as if aware it was being watched, then slipped back into the shadows behind the shelving rack.

  All of them were different except for three common things: same room, same Nel, same isolation. In every video, she was always alone. There were no NPCs. There wasn’t even an AI. There was only loneliness.

  Remi felt his chest contract. He had Astrid. Even Archie, in his different outfits, had been something. Nel had nothing but herself, this room, and her laptop.

  As he looked from frame to frame, he couldn’t help but think about the time she’d spent here. He’d been in Crucible school for the day. This appeared to be weeks. How had she done it?

  The screen blinked, replacing the Nel feeds with images of his own. The Nel beside him moved, her head tracing the videos. He saw her look worried as he fought the Papyropede. Nodded in approval as he cleaned up bugs for Astrid. Laugh at his expression when he saw his strength score. At one point, the woman beside him started typing as a perplexed Remi got a question wrong in math class: Slow down, old man! This is basic stat parsing, not rocket science.

  Remi remembered seeing that message. Back then, he’d thought it was just some system snark. Flavour text to motivate him, but it had been her. She’d been watching him. He saw her adjust the camera angle with her trackpad as he was in science class. He saw himself hesitate at the potion station. And the Nel next to him leaned forward. Not mocking, not detached, but invested like she was willing him to get through it. She looked sad when he screamed in horror after the CRISPR. She cared. Not because she’d to, but because she’d already decided he mattered.

  The screen went black again, to be replaced by a full screen. Nel was in an unfamiliar room. It’s the selection room. Remi watched her walk to the center of the room and sit in the lone chair. Her laptop appeared, and she typed something he couldn't see, but the selection screen in-front of her lit up. It wasn’t just a list of names, but a series of faces, threads with NSR ratings over their heads. She swiped left past a dozen candidates. A young boy, NSR 4.2. Swipe. A teenage girl, NSR 7.3, with the words already paired written in red across the screen. Swipe. A paladin with a glowing spear, NSR 9.1. Remi could see her hesitate before she again swiped left. That made little sense. He knew Nel, a Paladin at a 9.1, was the logical choice. She swiped in rapid succession, SWIPE, SWIPE, SWIPE, SWIPE, until finally she stopped on a picture of a teacher: mid-40s, tired eyes, holding a metre stick like a sword. Remi’s NSR now said 6.3 (unstable but increasing). It was a number he could live with.

  Nel hovered for a moment and then swiped right. Her HUD flashed.

  THREAD SELECTED: Page, O.M.

  Compatibility Margin: Unstable

  Team Synergy: HIGH

  The memory dissolved in a crossfade as the office re-materialized in front of him. Remi was back in school. His cookie gone and his life bar miraculously full. She hadn’t chosen the strongest. She hadn’t chosen the safest. She’d chosen him, and Remi wasn’t certain why. He wouldn’t have chosen himself. Why the fuck didn’t she pick the paladin? Apparently, she also liked raisin cookies.