Larius woke at 7:12 in the morning and immediately made a mistake.
He assumed his shoulder was better.
The assumption lasted until he tried to roll onto his left side.
Pain travelled from his shoulder into his upper arm with enough enthusiasm to make him stop halfway.
"...right."
Larius returned to his back.
The ceiling waited.
The crack was still there.
He stared at it.
"Good morning."
The crack did not answer.
Reliable.
Consistent.
A strong relationship.
Larius closed his eyes again.
His body felt better.
That was the irritating part.
Not good.
Better.
There was a difference.
The headache had reduced to a distant pressure. His ribs no longer protested every deep breath. The tremor in his hands had almost disappeared.
Almost.
If he held them still and looked carefully, he could occasionally see a faint movement in his fingers.
Larius had learned not to look carefully.
That lesson had taken approximately one hospital admission and several terrible decisions.
He considered it expensive education.
His phone vibrated.
Larius reached for it.
A message from Carl.
AWAKE?
Larius looked at the time.
7:13.
He typed:
Unfortunately.
The response arrived.
GOOD.
Then:
HOW'S HEAD
Larius considered the question.
He could answer:
Fine.
He had become increasingly suspicious of that word.
Instead:
Low headache. Shoulder hurts. No vomiting. Hands mostly steady.
Carl's response took longer.
YOU KEEPING A MEDICAL LOG NOW
Larius looked toward the blue notebook.
"...maybe."
He typed:
Baseline.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS
Larius smiled.
Good.
Carl sent a thumbs-down emoji.
Larius put the phone aside.
He sat up.
Slowly.
Feet on the floor.
Wait.
No dizziness.
Good.
He stood.
Wait.
Still good.
Larius looked toward the blue notebook.
It remained on the table.
Yesterday's title waited inside.
OBSERVATION IS NOT CONCLUSION
He had not started.
That was important.
He had only planned.
Planning was safe.
Planning did not involve sitting in cafés and psychologically dissecting strangers.
Planning was responsible.
Academic.
Boring.
Larius liked boring.
He walked into the kitchen.
The soup remained in the refrigerator.
He opened the door.
Stared at it.
Then at the eggs.
Then back at the soup.
"Breakfast soup?"
The refrigerator offered no ethical guidance.
Larius chose eggs.
Some lines still mattered.
At 8:04, Larius discovered his second mistake.
He assumed Sofia would allow him to enter the flower shop normally.
The bell above the door rang.
Sofia looked up.
Her expression changed.
Larius noticed.
Eyes widened.
Mouth opened slightly.
Shoulders rose.
Surprise.
No.
He stopped.
Observable facts first.
Eyes widened.
Mouth opened.
Shoulders rose.
Interpretation later.
Larius felt absurdly proud of himself for approximately half a second.
Then Sofia walked around the counter and hit him on the arm.
"Ow!"
Larius stepped back.
"Why?"
"Idiot."
"That doesn't answer the question."
Sofia hugged him.
Larius froze.
Completely.
His arms remained at his sides.
Sofia held him tightly for three seconds.
Four.
Then released him.
She immediately looked him over.
Face.
Shoulder.
Arms.
Hands.
"Hospital say okay?"
"Relatively."
Her eyes narrowed.
Larius corrected himself.
"Scans were clear. Follow-up required. Rest. No strenuous activity."
"Good."
"And apparently I should avoid violent crime."
Sofia stared.
"Hospital said?"
"Yes."
"Smart hospital."
Larius felt attacked by medicine again.
A scratching sound came from behind the counter.
Fabian appeared.
He held his notebook.
Larius smiled.
"Hey."
Fabian stared at him.
No smile.
Larius's chest tightened.
Angry.
Wait.
No.
Observable facts.
Fabian's eyebrows were lowered.
His mouth was pressed together.
His shoulders were still.
He held the notebook tightly.
Those were facts.
Interpretation:
Angry.
Alternative one:
Worried.
Alternative two:
Tired.
Alternative three:
Trying to remember where he put a pencil.
Larius frowned.
The third seemed weak.
Fabian wrote.
IDIOT
Larius stared.
Sofia nodded.
"See?"
"I am experiencing a hostile workplace."
"You don't work here."
"Then this is worse."
Fabian turned the page.
YOU SCARED US
Larius stopped.
Oh.
Worried.
Not angry.
Or both.
Larius looked at Fabian.
"I know."
Fabian waited.
Larius felt the automatic answer rising.
Sorry.
He used that word too easily.
Instead, he said:
"I didn't plan for it to happen."
Fabian's eyes narrowed.
Larius noticed.
Stopped.
Did not interpret.
Fabian wrote:
YOU NEVER PLAN
Larius read the sentence twice.
Sofia laughed.
Loudly.
Larius looked between them.
"I plan constantly."
Fabian wrote:
THEN BAD PLANS
Sofia leaned against the counter.
"Smart boy."
Larius felt betrayed by an entire family.
But he smiled.
He couldn't stop it.
Fabian smiled too.
There.
Larius noticed.
Mouth corners raised.
Cheeks moved.
Eyes slightly narrowed.
Observable facts.
Interpretation:
Happy.
Alternative one:
Amused.
Alternative two:
Relieved.
Alternative three:
Planning murder.
Larius stared at Fabian.
Fabian tilted his head.
Larius shook his own.
"Nothing."
This was going to be harder than expected.
The lily had changed.
Not dramatically.
Larius understood that now.
Plants did not explode into adulthood because the protagonist required symbolism.
The stem had grown slightly taller.
Two leaves had opened more fully.
Green.
Healthy-looking.
Larius leaned closer.
"Is that good?"
Sofia stood beside him.
"You tell me."
Larius looked at her.
"No."
"No?"
"I have recently learned that my observations are unreliable."
Sofia blinked.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He looked at the plant.
Facts.
Stem upright.
Leaves green.
No visible yellowing.
Soil surface slightly dry.
No obvious spots.
Larius nodded.
"It appears alive."
Sofia stared.
"Very good."
"Thank you."
"You want medal?"
"Maybe."
Fabian wrote something.
PLANT BETTER THAN YOU
Larius looked at him.
"Explain."
Fabian pointed at the lily.
Then at Larius.
Then wrote:
PLANT STAY OUT OF HOSPITAL
Sofia laughed so hard she had to turn away.
Larius looked at the lily.
"You've changed."
The lily remained innocent.
Larius checked the soil.
Not too much water.
He remembered.
Finger into the upper layer.
Dry.
A little deeper.
Slight moisture.
He stopped.
Sofia watched.
"Wait."
Larius looked at her.
"What?"
"You check."
"Yes."
"Before water."
"Yes."
Sofia placed a hand over her heart.
"My teaching."
Larius rolled his eyes.
"Please don't become emotional."
"Months."
"It has not been months."
"Felt like months."
Fabian nodded.
Larius looked at both.
"I was learning."
"You killed first bulb."
"I did not kill it."
Sofia stared.
"It failed under complicated environmental circumstances."
"You killed."
Larius turned toward Fabian.
"Support me."
Fabian wrote:
MURDER
Larius drank the coffee Sofia had given him.
He needed strength.
The blue notebook remained in his bag.
Larius could feel it there.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
Which was annoying because he knew enough psychology to recognize attentional fixation.
The more he tried not to think about the notebook, the more available the thought became.
White bear problem.
Ironic process theory.
Don't think about a white bear.
Now there was a white bear.
Larius sat in the chair near the back of Sofia's shop.
Different chair.
Apparently that mattered.
Customers came and went.
Larius did not observe them.
He absolutely did not.
A man entered.
Late thirties.
Maybe.
No.
Age estimate was interpretation.
Adult male.
Blue shirt.
Dark trousers.
He walked toward the roses.
Stopped.
Looked at red roses.
Then white.
Then his phone.
Then red again.
Larius looked away.
No.
He took a sip of coffee.
The man spoke with Sofia.
Larius heard fragments.
Anniversary.
Dinner.
Forgot.
Sofia laughed.
The man looked embarrassed.
Larius froze.
He had assumed funeral.
Why?
White roses?
The man's face?
No.
He hadn't even consciously formed the thought.
But somewhere, when the man moved between red and white flowers with a tense expression, Larius had thought:
Bad news.
Funeral.
He stared at his coffee.
Wrong.
Completely.
Embarrassingly.
Wrong.
The man bought red roses.
Anniversary.
Larius reached into his bag.
Stopped.
No.
Not starting.
The customer left.
Larius lasted twenty-seven seconds.
He pulled out the blue notebook.
Sofia noticed.
She said nothing.
Larius opened to a blank page.
He wrote:
BASELINE 1
Observed:
Adult male.
Blue shirt.
Looked at red roses.
Looked at white roses.
Checked phone.
Returned attention to red roses.
Initial interpretation:
Funeral / bad news.
Actual:
Forgot anniversary.
Larius stared.
Then wrote:
Accuracy: Terrible.
He paused.
No percentages.
Rule eleven.
He crossed out accuracy.
Instead:
Interpretation wrong.
Better.
Why had he thought funeral?
White flowers.
Tense expression.
Maybe hospital residue.
Recent exposure to death.
Availability heuristic.
Larius wrote:
Possible bias: availability.
He sat back.
There.
Psychology.
Basic.
Boring.
Safe.
He felt...
Humiliated.
Larius frowned.
That was unexpected.
He had known people were biased.
He had studied cognitive bias.
He had answered exam questions about cognitive bias.
But reading:
My interpretation was wrong
felt different.
Personal.
His brain apparently enjoyed treating theory as something that happened to other people.
Interesting.
Annoying.
Very human.
Larius closed the notebook.
Fabian was watching him.
Larius looked back.
Fabian pointed at the notebook.
Questioning expression.
Larius almost interpreted.
Stopped.
He pointed at the notebook.
"I'm testing how often I'm wrong."
Fabian immediately opened his own notebook.
Larius became suspicious.
Fabian wrote:
NEED BIGGER BOOK
Sofia laughed from the counter.
Larius stared at the boy.
"I walked into that."
Fabian nodded.
By noon, Larius had four baseline entries.
He had not intended to continue.
The problem was that being wrong became fascinating.
Not pleasant.
Fascinating.
Entry two:
A woman entered quickly.
Looked around.
Repeatedly checked the door.
Spoke fast.
Larius initially thought:
Nervous.
Maybe waiting for someone.
Actual explanation:
She had illegally parked.
Larius stared at the page.
Alternative explanation had been simple.
Time pressure.
He had missed it.
Entry three:
A teenager stood outside the shop for several minutes.
Hands in pockets.
Looked through the window twice.
Larius thought:
Wants to enter but anxious.
Actual:
Waiting for his mother, who worked at the nail salon nearby.
Entry four:
An older man spoke loudly to Sofia.
Pointed at an arrangement.
Brows lowered.
Larius thought:
Angry customer.
Actual:
Hearing impairment.
He simply spoke loudly.
Larius put his pen down.
"This is terrible."
Sofia looked over.
"What?"
"My brain."
"Hospital said okay."
"Different problem."
Fabian approached.
Larius turned the notebook so he could read.
Fabian read the entries.
Then looked at Larius.
Larius waited.
Fabian wrote:
YOU THINK TOO MUCH
"That is not academically useful."
Fabian wrote:
STILL TRUE
Larius looked at the notebook again.
Four observations.
Four incorrect initial interpretations.
Not all completely unreasonable.
That mattered.
The clues could support his interpretations.
White flowers could relate to funerals.
Repeated door checking could indicate anxiety.
Hesitation outside a shop could indicate uncertainty.
Loud speech and pointing could indicate anger.
The problem wasn't that Larius invented evidence.
The evidence existed.
The problem was that multiple stories fit the same evidence.
He had selected one.
Why?
Recent experience.
Expectation.
Personal history.
Available memory.
Bias.
Larius wrote:
Same behavior. Multiple possible causes.
Then:
I select explanations before I realize I selected them.
He stopped.
The headache remained quiet.
Good.
He continued.
Normal cognition compresses uncertainty.
Larius frowned.
That sounded too confident.
He crossed out normal cognition.
Rewrote:
My normal thinking compresses uncertainty.
Better.
Research methods.
Do not generalize from sample size one.
Especially when sample size one was Larius Wilarrow.
A deeply questionable participant.
Marcus arrived at the flower shop at 1:17.
Larius had not invited him.
Sofia had.
This became obvious when Marcus entered and Sofia pointed directly toward the back.
"There."
Larius looked up.
Marcus looked at him.
Larius looked at Sofia.
"You summoned him?"
"Yes."
"This is becoming an intervention."
Marcus walked over.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Better."
Marcus stopped in front of him.
"That's not an answer."
Larius stared.
Apparently everyone had attended the Cindy Ark school of irritating communication.
"Pain at rest is low. Movement above shoulder height hurts. Doctor said no strenuous activity until follow-up."
Marcus nodded.
"Head?"
"Low headache."
"Dizziness?"
"Only yesterday when standing."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Hands?"
Larius paused.
"Mostly steady."
Marcus watched him.
Larius felt the observation.
Normally, he would have watched back.
Instead, he looked at Marcus's shirt.
Black.
Plain.
Safe.
Marcus pulled a chair over.
Sat.
"You're not training."
"I know."
"You're not doing 'light training.'"
Larius looked offended.
"I understand."
"No push-ups."
"I understand."
"No shadowboxing."
Larius blinked.
Marcus stared.
Larius looked away.
"...I understand."
Marcus sighed.
"You were thinking about it."
"Thinking is not physical activity."
"With you, it becomes physical activity."
Sofia called from the counter:
"TRUE."
Larius closed his eyes.
He was surrounded.
Marcus leaned forward.
"We start with recovery."
Larius opened his eyes.
"How long?"
"Depends on medical clearance."
"No. I mean after."
Marcus studied him.
Larius resisted the urge to interpret.
Marcus said:
"You don't return where you stopped."
Larius frowned.
"What?"
"You were conditioning for a month."
"Yes."
"You spent days in a hospital."
"Yes."
"You've had acute stress, poor sleep, physical trauma."
Larius's jaw tightened.
Marcus continued.
"So we reassess."
Larius hated the word immediately.
"No."
Marcus smiled.
That was concerning.
"We reassess."
"I already did the initial assessment."
"Before getting hurt."
"My body didn't forget a month."
"No."
Marcus leaned back.
"But it didn't freeze in storage either."
Larius stared.
Reality.
Again.
Persistent.
Annoying.
"How much did I lose?"
"I don't know."
"Estimate."
"No."
"Marcus."
"Baseline."
Larius froze.
Marcus frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Marcus had used the word accidentally.
Normal use.
Training baseline.
Physical assessment.
Larius looked at the blue notebook.
Two baselines.
Mind.
Body.
Apparently life had themes now.
He disliked themes when they happened to him.
Marcus stood.
"When you're cleared, we check mobility first."
"Then?"
"Light movement."
"Then?"
"Recovery tolerance."
"Then?"
"Stop asking then."
Larius frowned.
"I like knowing sequences."
"I know."
Marcus's voice softened.
"That's why I'm not giving you one."
Larius looked up.
Marcus continued.
"Because you'll turn it into a deadline."
Silence.
Larius opened his mouth.
Closed it.
That was...
Fair.
Painfully.
Marcus nodded toward the notebook.
"Whatever you're doing, don't turn healing into another exam."
Then he left.
Larius watched him go.
Fabian approached.
He wrote:
HE SMART
Larius stared.
"Nobody asked."
The library called at 2:08.
Larius stepped outside the flower shop to answer.
"Hello?"
"Larius?"
The voice belonged to Diane.
Senior library assistant.
Late fifties.
Glasses with a red frame.
Larius remembered.
"Yes."
"Oh, good. Carl said you were awake."
Larius frowned.
"Why is Carl distributing medical updates?"
"Because you don't."
"...fair."
Diane's voice softened.
"How are you?"
The question again.
Larius leaned against the shop wall.
He considered.
"Recovering."
A pause.
"That's a better answer than fine."
Larius stared at the street.
Was everyone conspiring?
"I've been receiving criticism about that word."
Diane laughed.
"Good."
Larius smiled.
"When do you need me back?"
The question escaped automatically.
Diane became quiet.
Larius noticed.
He almost interpreted.
Angry?
No.
Facts.
Silence for approximately two seconds.
Breath.
Then:
"We don't need you back until you're ready."
Larius frowned.
"That's inefficient."
"Larius."
"The schedule."
"We adjusted it."
"Who?"
"People."
"That is vague."
"People who work with you."
His chest tightened.
Diane continued.
"Sam took two evening shifts. Nora covered shelving. I handled returns yesterday."
Larius looked down.
The pavement had a small crack near his shoe.
"We had it covered."
He didn't know what to say.
His mind searched.
Thank you.
Sorry.
You shouldn't have.
I'll return early.
All automatic.
He stopped.
"What did it cost them?"
Diane paused.
"What?"
"The schedule changes."
"Larius."
"Sam has classes."
"Yes."
"Nora has her second job."
"Yes."
"So..."
"So they'll survive."
Larius became quiet.
Diane sighed.
"You're allowed to be inconvenient occasionally."
He frowned.
"That sounds like bad workplace policy."
She laughed.
Larius didn't.
Not immediately.
Then he did.
Small.
"Come by when you feel up to it," Diane said. "Not to work."
"Why?"
"Because people want to see you."
Larius stared at the flower shop window.
Inside, Sofia was arguing with a customer about a ribbon color.
Fabian sat near the counter.
Marcus had already left.
People want to see you.
The sentence felt strange.
Heavy.
Not bad.
"I'll come tomorrow."
"Only if you feel up to it."
"I said I'll come."
"I heard you."
The call ended.
Larius remained outside.
He looked at the street.
A man hurried past.
Larius noticed his pace.
Did not interpret.
A woman stood near a parked car.
Larius noticed.
Did not interpret.
Two children argued.
One pointed.
The other crossed his arms.
Larius noticed.
Did not interpret.
It felt...
Incomplete.
His brain wanted stories.
Angry.
Late.
Waiting.
Upset.
The labels came easily.
But now Larius could see them arriving.
Not always.
Sometimes.
That was new.
He returned inside.
At 5:30, Larius went home.
Sofia sent food.
Of course.
A container of arroz con pollo.
Larius had attempted to refuse.
Sofia had looked at him.
Larius accepted the food.
Fabian handed him a folded paper before he left.
Larius opened it at home.
A drawing.
A hospital bed.
A stick figure lying in it.
Another stick figure stood nearby holding flowers.
A third, smaller figure held a notebook.
Above the hospital figure:
IDIOT
Above the flower figure:
MOM
Above the smaller figure:
SMART
Larius stared.
He took a photo.
Sent it to Sofia.
Why is Fabian the only smart one?
The reply:
ACCURATE DRAWING
Larius placed the paper on the desk.
Not hidden.
He normally put things into drawers.
Stored.
Organized.
Protected.
The drawing remained visible.
He heated the food.
Ate slowly.
His shoulder ached less than morning.
Good.
He did not write better.
Better invited assumptions.
At 7:00, he performed the only exercises the discharge instructions allowed without complaint.
Gentle walking.
Basic mobility within pain-free range.
Breathing.
He stood in the apartment.
Rolled his shoulders carefully.
Right.
Fine.
Left.
Tight.
Stop before pain.
He lowered his arm.
Again.
Small range.
No heroics.
Marcus would somehow know.
Larius suspected trainers had a network.
He walked around the block.
Slow.
Ten minutes.
His body felt strange.
Not weak exactly.
Deconditioned?
Maybe.
No.
Do not diagnose from feeling.
Facts.
Breathing increased after several minutes.
Legs felt normal.
Shoulder discomfort remained low.
No dizziness.
No nausea.
Larius almost laughed.
He had turned walking into a research protocol.
A dog passed him.
Golden fur.
Blue collar.
The dog looked at him.
Larius looked back.
The dog pulled toward him.
Larius's brain supplied:
Friendly.
He stopped.
Alternative explanations.
Food smell.
Curiosity.
Leash direction.
The dog reached him.
Sniffed his trousers.
Then sneezed.
Larius stared.
The owner laughed.
"Sorry. He's friendly."
Larius looked at the dog.
"Apparently my first interpretation was correct."
The owner looked confused.
"Uh..."
"Nothing."
Larius continued walking.
He smiled for the next half block.
One correct interpretation.
Completely ordinary.
No percentage.
No headache.
Good.
The library looked different when Larius entered the next afternoon.
Not physically.
Same shelves.
Same lights.
Same front desk.
Same carpet.
He had spent enough hours there that the layout lived in his body.
Turn left.
Returns cart.
Staff desk.
Break room.
Diane saw him first.
She stood.
Larius noticed.
Eyes widened.
Chair moved backward.
Hands left keyboard.
Facts.
Interpretation:
Surprise.
Alternative:
Alarm.
Relief.
Need to use bathroom urgently.
Larius nearly smiled.
Diane walked around the desk.
She hugged him.
Larius froze.
Again.
Apparently people had decided physical affection was legal now.
"Good to see you."
"Thank you."
Diane released him.
She looked at his face.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"Good."
Larius frowned.
"Why is that good?"
"You answered honestly."
There was definitely a conspiracy.
Sam appeared from between shelves.
Twenty-two.
College student.
Usually wore headphones around his neck.
He stopped.
"Dude."
Larius raised a hand.
"Hello."
Sam approached.
Then stopped awkwardly.
Larius watched.
Arms moved slightly.
Stopped.
Weight shifted.
Eyes moved toward Diane.
Interpretation:
Unsure whether to hug.
Larius waited.
Sam finally held out a fist.
Larius looked at it.
Then bumped it.
Sam exhaled.
Larius blinked.
Correct.
Probably.
He wrote nothing.
Nora came from the staff area.
She stared at him.
"You're alive."
"Current evidence supports that."
"Idiot."
Larius sighed.
"Fabian already used that."
"Smart kid."
"Apparently."
Nora placed a small paper bag on the counter.
"For you."
Larius looked inside.
Salt biscuits.
He stared.
Nora shrugged.
"You always eat them on break."
Larius looked at her.
He had never thought anyone noticed.
Interesting.
The word came quietly.
People observed him too.
Of course they did.
The realization should have been obvious.
It wasn't.
Larius spent so much time thinking about his own observation that he had unconsciously positioned himself as the observer.
Not the observed.
Yet Nora knew his snack.
Diane knew he lied with fine.
Carl knew he would forget his seat belt when distracted.
Marcus knew he turned sequences into deadlines.
Sofia knew he would overwater a plant.
Fabian knew he planned badly.
Larius stood very still.
People had baselines for him.
Not notebooks.
Not research methods.
Relationships.
His chest tightened.
Nora frowned.
"You okay?"
Larius looked at the biscuits.
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow.
He corrected himself.
"...I think so."
Better.
Nora nodded.
Larius stayed for forty minutes.
He did not work.
Diane enforced that aggressively.
He sat near the staff desk.
Talked.
Mostly listened.
Sam described a customer who had returned a cookbook because the recipes were "too specific."
Larius found this personally offensive.
Nora complained about a printer.
Diane drank tea.
Ordinary.
Larius observed.
He could not stop entirely.
But the notebook stayed inside his bag.
Sam scratched his neck while talking.
Larius's brain offered nervous.
Maybe.
Nora crossed her arms.
Defensive.
Maybe.
Diane sighed.
Tired.
Maybe.
The word became useful.
Maybe.
It inserted space.
Observation.
Processing.
Maybe.
Conclusion.
Not certainty.
Larius liked that.
Then Sam said:
"I was gonna visit."
Larius looked at him.
Sam immediately looked away.
Nervous.
Maybe.
"But hospitals are weird."
Larius waited.
"And I didn't know if we were, like..."
Sam gestured.
"...friends enough?"
Silence.
Larius stared.
Sam became visibly uncomfortable.
Observable.
Very observable.
Larius's mind stopped analyzing.
Friends.
He looked at Nora.
Then Diane.
Then Sam.
"I don't know."
Sam laughed awkwardly.
"Great."
"No."
Larius frowned.
"I mean..."
Words.
Why were words harder than armed robbery observations?
"I don't know where the line is."
Sam looked at him.
"The line?"
"Acquaintance. Coworker. Friend."
Nora stared.
"Larius."
"What?"
"Normal people don't have an HR classification system for friendship."
Diane covered a smile.
Larius frowned.
"That would be useful."
Sam laughed.
Actually laughed.
Larius smiled.
Then said:
"You could have visited."
Sam stopped.
Larius looked at the counter.
"I think."
A pause.
"Okay."
Sam's voice was quieter.
"Next time."
Larius looked up.
"There should not be a next time."
"Fair."
Nora pointed at him.
"Statistically, with you?"
"Do not."
They laughed.
Larius did too.
His ribs barely hurt.
Progress.
No.
Fact.
His ribs barely hurt.
Interpretation later.
He smiled at his own correction.
Diane noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
This time, it wasn't avoidance.
Some thoughts could simply belong to him.
That distinction mattered too.
That evening, Larius opened the blue notebook.
He had eight baseline entries.
Four wrong.
Two uncertain.
One mostly correct.
One involving a dog.
The dataset was terrible.
He wrote that.
Dataset remains terrible.
Then:
Important findings so far:
He paused.
Finding sounded too formal.
He kept it anyway.
1. I interpret before noticing that I interpreted.
2. Recent experiences influence which explanation feels most available.
3. Visible behavior can support multiple explanations.
4. I am much more confident internally than my accuracy deserves.
Larius stared at number four.
Painful.
True.
He continued.
5. "Maybe" creates time.
He tapped the pen.
Then:
6. People have baselines for me too.
His hand stopped.
He looked toward Fabian's drawing.
The paper remained on the desk.
Visible.
Larius wrote:
Relationships are informal longitudinal observation.
He stared.
Then groaned.
"No."
He crossed it out.
That sounded terrible.
He rewrote:
Friends notice patterns.
Better.
Human.
He leaned back.
The black notebook remained inside the bag.
He had not opened it since leaving the hospital.
Two percent waited there.
Larius knew.
But tonight, he didn't need it.
The blue notebook was enough.
He looked at the entries.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Uncertain.
Uncertain.
Correct.
Dog.
Larius laughed.
Quietly.
The baseline was humiliating.
His normal observations were biased.
His conclusions were rushed.
His confidence was unreliable.
His psychology education had not protected him from basic cognitive errors.
If anything, knowing the names of biases had merely given him more sophisticated vocabulary while being wrong.
That was a very hard thing to accept.
It was also...
relieving.
Larius frowned.
He had expected the baseline to reveal something unusual.
Instead, the first thing it revealed was that Larius Wilarrow was painfully, embarrassingly human.
His mind guessed.
Compressed.
Selected.
Filled gaps.
Built stories.
Sometimes those stories were right.
Sometimes an angry customer simply couldn't hear properly.
Sometimes a nervous woman had parked illegally.
Sometimes a suspicious teenager was waiting for his mother.
Sometimes a dog was friendly.
Larius closed the notebook.
His shoulder felt better than morning.
His headache remained low.
Tomorrow he had a follow-up appointment.
After that, perhaps another week before Marcus allowed more movement.
The library would wait.
Carl had already threatened to personally remove him from the security desk if he returned early.
Sofia expected him at the shop.
Fabian expected new material for insults.
Life had not paused.
That was good.
Larius stood.
Walked toward the lily.
Checked the soil.
Stopped.
Facts.
Surface dry.
Lower soil slightly moist.
Leaves green.
Stem upright.
He smiled.
"Maybe you're healthy."
The lily remained silent.
Larius nodded.
"Good talk."
He turned off the lamp.
Before bed, he looked at the two notebooks.
Black.
Blue.
One contained a mind he could not explain.
The other contained proof that the mind he thought he understood was frequently wrong.
Larius wasn't sure which frightened him more.
He lay down.
The ceiling crack waited.
He breathed.
In.
Out.
His shoulder settled against the mattress.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then Larius frowned.
"Control group."
He stared at the ceiling.
"That's wrong."
There was no control group.
He had one participant.
Himself.
No randomization.
No independent comparison.
Nothing remotely resembling proper experimental design.
Larius covered his face.
"My research methods professor would kill me."
Silence.
He lowered his hands.
"Baseline."
Better.
He closed his eyes.
For once, being wrong did not feel like failure.
It felt like data.
And somewhere between the hospital, the flower shop, the library, a dog, and eight terrible observations...
Larius had begun learning the first rule of understanding his own mind.
Before he could trust what he saw...
he had to learn how easily he could fool himself.