This was not that. My inability to even find a place to rest my gaze was an extension of the way this was laid out. This was a space that was too long, where tables and chairs against one wall became a barricade that ate into the space that could be occupied, something that demanded effort or maneuvering in order to clear a space to sit on. Once situated at that edge, it was hard to be next to others, to huddle, to turn to face the person beside you without looking through a nest of chair and table legs.

And it wasn’t our space, so we couldn’t exactly rearrange anything or everything. It was impossible to create a space for actual discussion in here, where we weren’t talking past people.

It made me think of parties, of people gathered in hallways, so conversations happened in the exact same places where people were needing to walk by, voices raised to be heard, noisy, chaotic—

Except we were quieter than not. We weren’t moving around. This space would have been comfortable if everyone present was on good terms, but we weren’t.

“They’re fine,” Tristan was the one to volunteer the answer. “Miss Militia’s addressing the room.”

“From where?” I asked. “Center of the room, still?”

“Yeah,” Tristan said.

“What does it mean, exactly?” I asked. “Her being in the middle. I noticed position mattering.”

Distract me.

But not too much. I had to watch Miss Militia, keep an eye on the kid with the gun. I was supposed to watch Breakthrough but holy shit was I not up to doing that right now, and when I had, it had barely mattered with the people I’d wanted it to matter with. I’d cross that bridge later.

It was Marquis who answered, “In the textbooks they hand out for young men and women on academic tracks to become politicians or innovators—scientists—they say a good discussion starts at the edges, with agreed upon facts, and it migrates toward the center as a dance, often a duet or a solo venture. Ideally, you want to get there without someone else stepping in and forcing you to step away from center.”

“She went there and she’s staying there,” Tristan said, without turning around.

“I can make educated guesses, but before making one, I should tell you that dance once had firm rules, but as with many things so deeply rooted in a culture, qualifying and quantifying everything is next to impossible.”

“He doesn’t know,” my mother said. She turned toward Marquis. “If you don’t know, admit it. Don’t give us misleading or incomplete information and leave us to struggle with it. This is precarious enough as it is.”