Something you must have made up on the spot because why would he do that? “—generous.”

“Levi’s awesome. Best boss I ever had. He harassed NASA into giving me health insurance!” She smiles and turns to Rocío, who looks ready to drown herself in a

Danish brook. Again. “Where did you want to start?”

Rocío incinerates me with her eyes as I wave goodbye. Honestly, she’s in excellent hands. Doesn’t even deserve it. On the sidewalk, I take out my phone and quickly type up a tweet.

@WhatWouldMarieDo . . . if one of the major obstacles preventing access to higher education were the GRE, a test that is 1) expensive 2) poorly predictive of overall graduate school success, and 3) biased against

individuals who are lower-income, BIPOC, and non-cis-males?

I slip my phone into my pocket, and my thoughts go back to the gym.

Levi probably just wants me to be able to use it so he doesn’t have to retrieve me from a different cemetery every week. Can’t blame him, honestly.

Yeah. That must be it.

11

NUCLEUS ACCUMBENS: GAMBLING

“LEVI? COULD YOU send me the newest—”

“Blueprints are on the server,” he mumbles around the miniature screwdriver he’s holding between his teeth. He doesn’t look up from the mound of wires and plates he’s working on.

It’s past nine on a Friday. Everyone else has left. We’re alone in the engineering lab, like most nights this week, in what I’ve come to think of as our Hostile Companionable Silence™. It’s very similar to other types of silence, except that I know that Levi doesn’t like me, and Levi knows that I know he doesn’t like me and that I don’t like him in return.

But he doesn’t bring it up, and I don’t really think about it. Because we have no reason to.

So, yeah. Our Hostile Companionable Silence™ is basically a regular companionable silence. We sit facing each other at different workbenches.

We dim the lights to see the shapes of the outside trees. We focus on our respective tasks. Every once in a while, we exchange comments, thoughts, doubts regarding BLINK. We could do the same from our respective offices, but looking up from my laptop and verbally asking a question beats writing it out in an email. Typing out, Hey, Levi and Best, Bee is such a pain.

Plus, Levi packs snacks. He brings them to work for himself, but he’s lousy at gauging portions and always makes too much. So far I’ve had homemade trail mix, guac and saltines, rice cakes, popcorn, pita chips and bean dip, and about four kinds of energy balls.

Yes, he’s a better cook than I’ll ever be.

No, I’m not too proud to accept his food. I’m not too proud to accept anyone’s food.

Plus, I’ve been in Houston for a month, and we’re already close to a working version of the prototype. I deserve some celebratory face-stuffing.

“The old blueprint is on the server, not the new one.”

He takes the screwdriver out of his mouth. “It is. I put it there.”

“That’s not the correct file.”

He looks up. “Could you check again, please?”

I roll my eyes and sigh heavily, but I comply. Because today he made dark chocolate and peanut butter energy balls, and they were life-shatteringly good. “Done. Still not here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It has to be there.” He gives me an impatient look, like I’m pulling him away from the crucial task of securing the country’s nuclear codes.

“It’s not. Do you want to bet something on it?”

“What would you like to bet?”

“Let’s see.” His face when he finds that I’m right is going to be better than sex. Better than sex with Tim, for sure. “A million dollars.”

“I don’t have a million dollars. Do you?”

“Of course I do, I’m a junior scientist.” He chuckles. Something flutters inside me, and I ignore it. “Let’s bet

Schrödinger.”

“I’m not betting my cat.”

“Because you know you’re going to lose.”

“No, because my cat is seventeen and needs regular manual expression of his anal glands. But if you still want him . . .”

I make a face. “No, I’m good.” I drum my fingers on my biceps, wondering what else Levi has that I want. I could make him cook for me every day for a month, but he’s sort of already doing that without realizing. Why change something that works? “If I win, you get a tattoo.”

“Of what?”

“A goat. Alive,” I add magnanimously.

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Already have one.”

I laugh. “Oh, I’ve got it! Your mug? The one that says Yoda Best Engineer?”

“Yeah?”

“I want one. But it needs to say ‘neuroscientist,’ of course.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “This is the equivalent to someone buying their own World’s Best Boss mug. Congratulations,

you’re officially NASA’s Michael Scott.”