I put a chair beside the trainer before opening the supply.
It was too low. Sitting brought my wrist against the edge of the stand, so I moved it behind me instead. I could turn and sit if I needed to. That had taken several minutes and done nothing to the target, but I was already less interested in pretending I wouldn't need the chair.
Five mornings ago I had burned my finger on this apparatus. The mark had settled into a thin raised line. Linen kept the glove from rubbing it; it did nothing about the pull when I closed my hand. I took off the soft glove and unwound the strip, laying both beside the notebook.
The wheel was closed. I checked it, then put my hand where the thread of light would appear.
My finger wanted to curl.
I held it straighter with my left thumb, which hurt, and let go. That wouldn't work. I couldn't use both hands to make one of them obey while an attack came toward me.
For a while I moved the whole forearm instead. Forward, back. The finger could stay slightly bent if I approached at an angle. I found a position that put the pad between the studs without letting the knuckle touch the glass. On the return movement I kept lifting my shoulder. Each time I noticed, I lowered it and started again.
No power. No current. I had still begun to sweat by the time the movement stopped catching.
I sat and read the account of the first attempt. The words were brief enough to fit under my hand. I remembered much more: the narrowing light, the certainty that another instant would finish it, the way I had kept waiting to hear the wooden indicator fall.
I had been trying to leave after it was over.
I stood again and brought my hand forward on a small breath, drawing the forearm back as I let the breath out. This was difficult to do without turning it into an elaborate performance. Once I caught myself holding my breath until the hand was clear. Once the cuff slipped down and I stopped to roll it higher.
The service door was shut. Somewhere beyond it, someone dropped a stack of something that bounced. I waited through the swearing before trying circulation.
Pressure gathered under my ribs, then moved into the arm. At the wrist it thinned. I was used to wanting more there. I let it fade instead, keeping my fingers loose, and the movement back felt almost ordinary.
Almost. I had to sit afterward.
The sun had reached one corner of the court by the time I opened the supply. I kept the wheel on its lowest mark. The thread appeared between the studs, and the indicator rose behind the glass.
I pulled the cutoff once to make sure it still moved freely. Then I reopened it.
My left hand remained close to the lever. I looked at it, thought of the last attempt, and laid it flat on the table. The lever was still within reach if I needed it. I would know whether I'd used it.
I let a breath out and took a smaller one.
The pressure reached my elbow. I loosened the shoulder. At the wrist it began to falter, and I waited rather than push it onward. The feeling steadied, faintly, with my finger still clear of the light.
I lowered the hand.
The burn started at contact. My finger tried to close, and I drew the whole forearm back before I could decide to hold it there.
The light broke under the pad.
I heard the click while my hand was still between the studs. A gap crossed the thread; the indicator struck the bottom of its slot. Then light fed through from the open supply and joined again. By the time my finger was clear, the wooden piece was rising.
My left palm was still flat on the table.
I looked from it to the line, then laughed. It came out as a breath I hadn't meant to use. The finger was hot, and there was a tremor along the underside of my arm, but the indicator had fallen. I had seen the gap. The supply had stayed open.
I wanted to do it again before I lost whatever had worked.
My right hand lifted. Pressure caught below the breastbone, and I put it down on the table with the fingers hanging over the edge.
The line shone between the studs as steadily as before. I could imagine watching it go out a second time. I could also remember how long the washroom had seemed to take to reach after the first burn.
I shut the supply with my left hand.
The ordinary click was quieter than the one I kept hearing.
I sat until the urge to stand stopped making the room dip. On the page, I separated what I had seen from what I wanted it to mean. One interruption at the lowest supply. Contact required. The line returned immediately. I hadn't held it down, and I hadn't tried against anything larger.
Then I wrote down the part that had worked before I could make it more impressive: move back before waiting for the click.
I couldn't make the last word legible with the pen held normally. The index finger shook against it. I changed the grip, crossed out the blur and finished.
Putting the glove on would have been a mistake. I wrapped it around the loose linen and carried the bundle in my left hand, with the notebook against my side. Before leaving I looked once more at the wheel. Closed. The indicator lay flat.
---
In the washroom I got the tap running, then couldn't manage the towel hook.
It was only a loop of cloth caught over a peg. My right fingers closed on it and failed to pull. I used the left, annoyed enough to tug harder than necessary, and knocked the edge of the basin with my elbow.
The finger was red around the old raised line. There was no new cut to explain the ache farther up my arm. I held the hand beneath the cool water, then rested my forearm on a folded towel while the drops ran from my fingertips.
I had planned to go back after lunch. A second short session, perhaps only practicing the movement. The court would be available; I had asked.
By the time someone called through the door to see whether I needed more towels, I knew I wasn't going back.
"No. Thank you."
The latch moved a little under my left hand. I had been holding it without noticing. I let go.
"Tell them I won't need the court this afternoon."
"Shall I keep the hour for tomorrow, my lord?"
I looked at the hand on the towel.
"No. I'll ask when I need it."
The footsteps went away. I stayed until I could straighten the finger without the rest of the hand joining in, then loosely rewrapped it with the same dry strip. The glove went into my pocket.
Lunch had been left in my room. I ate with my left hand and had to lean over the plate when the fork wouldn't quite do what I wanted. Afterward I meant to read. I opened the notebook on the bed, found the line about the click, and left it there while I lay down.
When I woke, the sun was on the other side of the room. My arm still ached. The notebook had slipped to the floor, open at the page I had written, and for once I knew what it would say before I picked it up.