The Architecture

# Chapter 1: The Council Convenes

The basil smelled like August.

Carmen had been clipping it since before I woke up. The cuttings sat in a colander by the sink, dark green and still wet, and the kitchen held that particular warmth that comes from a window open to late summer and a stove that has been on and off since dawn. The coffee was made. The pot was half full, which meant Carmen had already had her first cup and was working on her second. Through the window over the sink, the light came in low and golden, angled the way it angles when the season has started to turn, a half hour later than it had in June, hitting the far wall instead of the table.

I was at the table.

The fourth notebook was open in front of me. Black ballpoint to the right, cap off. The notebook was one-third full, which I could feel in the weight of it, the written pages thicker than the blank ones, the ink adding something you wouldn't think paper could carry. The first page had a slight curl at the top corner where Carmen's pencil line still held from Day 213. *He read it through.* Her handwriting, not mine. I had not written over it. I had not asked her about it. It was the first line in the notebook and it was hers.

Beto was under the table by my left foot. He was asleep. His breathing was slow and even, the rhythm of a dog who has been old long enough to be good at sleeping. His fur was warm against my ankle. He did not stir when I turned pages.