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Afterwards, after she had had a good, long cry about what she could only refer to as ‘the incident’ in respect to her sanity, Preston Meredith, slowly, fragile as a newborn, untangled herself from her duvet and rose to her feet. Spying the barest traces of sunlight through her shuttered window, she stood a while, fighting a great many urges. Pondering and ponderously, she strode to her desk. Notebooks neatly stacked and books just the same greeted her there—with subjects ranging from calculus to kinesiology—beside a mug that held about a quarter of tea and was cold. Loose flashcards and bits of paper strewn about looked to be in a war of languages—those of Korean and music. Setting these aside, Preston sat and opened the lid of her laptop. Soon, she was checking her email, sighing, puffing out her cheek, leaning backwards to run a hand through her dishevelled hair and coming away with a strand of such copper. Leaning forwards, she pecked a response to something she