Larius discovered a new problem at 8:43 in the morning.
The coffee might be too hot.
He stood in his kitchen.
Mug in hand.
Steam rose from the surface.
Larius stared.
Too hot.
Maybe.
He moved the mug closer.
Heat touched his face.
Probably too hot.
But heat rising from the coffee did not necessarily indicate that the liquid temperature was high enough to cause injury.
Larius frowned.
He could test it.
Small sip.
But that involved committing to the assumption that a small sip was reasonably safe.
He stared at the coffee.
The coffee stared back.
Probably.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Larius lowered the mug.
Waited.
Thirty seconds.
Picked it up.
Steam.
Less steam?
Maybe.
Steam volume was not a reliable measurement.
He could use a thermometer.
Larius looked toward the kitchen drawer.
Stopped.
"No."
He looked at the coffee.
"This is coffee."
Silence.
"You are not a research participant."
The coffee remained suspicious.
Larius raised the mug.
Stopped.
Maybe it was still too hot.
He lowered it.
His phone vibrated.
Larius looked at the screen.
Carl.
He answered.
"Hello."
"Morning."
"Morning."
"What are you doing?"
Larius looked at the mug.
"Nothing."
Carl was silent.
Larius immediately became aware that nothing had sounded suspicious.
Carl said:
"Why did you answer like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I caught you hiding a body."
"I don't know how people hiding bodies answer phone calls."
"Probably like that."
Larius frowned.
Maybe Carl was joking.
No.
Obviously joking.
Probably.
Maybe.
Larius rubbed his forehead.
Carl continued.
"You eat?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"I made coffee."
Another silence.
Carl said:
"That sentence did not answer my question."
Larius looked at the mug.
"I became distracted."
"By what?"
Larius considered lying.
"No."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Larius."
"The coffee might be too hot."
Silence.
A long silence.
Larius closed his eyes.
Carl finally said:
"Blow on it."
Larius opened his eyes.
He stared at the mug.
"Oh."
Carl said nothing.
Larius could feel the silence becoming judgmental.
"I knew that."
"Sure."
"I did."
"Eat breakfast."
The call ended.
Larius looked at the phone.
Then the coffee.
He blew across the surface.
Took a cautious sip.
Warm.
Not hot.
Fine.
Larius placed the mug down.
He stared at it.
"...this is becoming a problem."
The problem had started yesterday.
Possibly.
Maybe.
Larius stopped walking.
He was halfway between the kitchen and the table.
"Stop."
The apartment remained quiet.
He closed his eyes.
The word had become automatic.
Maybe.
It had been useful.
At the library.
At Sofia's shop.
During his observations.
Maybe created space.
Maybe prevented him from turning one behavior into one explanation.
Maybe reminded him that evidence could support multiple stories.
Good.
Useful.
Responsible.
Larius opened his eyes.
The problem was that his brain had apparently taken the lesson, removed all moderation, and begun applying it to existence.
Was the coffee too hot?
Maybe.
Was his shoulder improving?
Maybe.
Was he tired?
Maybe.
Was Carl joking?
Maybe.
Did he need breakfast?
Maybe.
Larius looked toward the kitchen.
"No. I need breakfast."
His stomach felt empty.
Fact.
He walked toward the refrigerator.
Opened it.
Eggs.
Bread.
Leftover rice.
Sofia's food.
Larius considered.
Eggs.
Maybe too much effort.
He froze.
"No."
He took the eggs.
One.
Two.
Pan.
Low heat.
He cooked.
The first egg spread slightly farther than expected.
Larius adjusted the pan.
The second yolk broke.
He stared.
His mind supplied:
Maybe the shell pressure was uneven.
Maybe the egg was older.
Maybe his grip changed.
Maybe—
"It's an egg."
He continued cooking.
The broken yolk became scrambled by necessity.
Larius ate it.
It tasted fine.
Probably.
He put the fork down.
"No."
It tasted fine.
That was allowed.
He was allowed to have opinions.
Apparently this required clarification now.
His follow-up appointment was at ten.
Carl drove.
Larius had protested.
Carl ignored him.
The car moved through morning traffic.
Larius sat in the passenger seat.
He watched the road.
Not intensely.
He had been practicing that.
Look.
Notice.
Continue.
A car changed lanes ahead.
Larius noticed the indicator.
No analysis.
A pedestrian waited near a crossing.
No analysis.
A cyclist moved between cars.
Larius's shoulders tightened.
Dangerous.
Maybe.
He frowned.
The cyclist passed safely.
Larius watched them disappear.
Carl glanced at him.
"You okay?"
"Maybe."
Carl looked at him.
Larius looked back.
Carl returned his attention to the road.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Larius waited.
Carl's fingers tapped the steering wheel.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Larius noticed.
Impatient?
Maybe.
Concerned?
Maybe.
Habit?
Maybe.
Music rhythm?
Maybe.
Larius stared at Carl's hand.
Carl stopped tapping.
"Why are you staring at my hand?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
Larius looked forward.
"Sorry."
Carl waited.
Larius could feel the question.
Finally:
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"Larius."
"I'm trying not to make assumptions."
Carl nodded slowly.
"Okay."
Larius looked at him.
That was easier than expected.
Then Carl said:
"Why?"
Larius sighed.
"Because I discovered I'm frequently wrong."
Carl laughed.
Larius stared.
Carl glanced toward him.
"Sorry."
"You laughed very quickly."
"Because everyone is frequently wrong."
"I know that academically."
"Academically?"
"Yes."
Carl looked confused.
Larius continued.
"Knowing a cognitive bias exists is different from watching yourself demonstrate it four times before lunch."
Carl smiled.
"Four?"
"Four."
"How many observations?"
Larius remained silent.
Carl looked at him.
"How many?"
"Four."
Carl laughed again.
Larius crossed his arms.
His shoulder protested.
He uncrossed them immediately.
Carl noticed.
The smile disappeared.
"You okay?"
"Shoulder."
"Bad?"
"Maybe."
Carl's expression changed.
Larius saw concern.
Maybe.
No.
Stop.
He considered the pain.
Low.
Brief.
Triggered by movement.
"Low pain. It stopped when I moved."
Carl nodded.
"See?"
Larius frowned.
"See what?"
"You know."
"Know what?"
"Your shoulder hurt."
"Yes."
"You didn't need three theories."
Larius looked out the window.
Carl continued driving.
Larius hated when other people became useful.
The doctor asked him to raise his arm.
Larius did.
Slowly.
"Stop when it hurts."
The arm rose.
Thirty degrees.
Forty.
Fifty.
Tightness.
Pain?
Maybe.
Larius continued.
Sixty.
Pain.
He stopped.
"There."
The doctor nodded.
"Sharp or dull?"
Larius hesitated.
Dull.
Probably.
Maybe—
"Dull."
"Radiating?"
"No."
"Any numbness?"
"No."
"Tingling?"
"No."
The doctor examined the shoulder.
Pressed near the bruising.
Pain.
Larius flinched.
"That hurt?"
"Yes."
The answer came immediately.
Larius noticed.
Interesting.
The doctor continued.
Neurological checks.
Eye movement.
Grip strength.
Questions.
Headaches?
"Low."
Frequency?
"Intermittent."
Dizziness?
"Once after standing yesterday. None since."
Nausea?
"No."
Sleep?
Larius hesitated.
"Poor."
Carl, sitting in the corner, said:
"Terrible."
Larius looked at him.
The doctor looked at Carl.
"How terrible?"
"He wakes up."
"I am in the room."
Carl ignored him.
"Messages at two in the morning."
"I was awake."
"Exactly."
The doctor looked at Larius.
"How many hours?"
Larius considered.
"Four to six."
"Continuous?"
"No."
The doctor made a note.
Larius watched the pen.
Diagnosis?
No.
Note.
Just a note.
Maybe—
He looked away.
The doctor eventually sat.
"You're recovering."
Larius felt his chest loosen.
Then the doctor continued.
"Slowly."
Of course.
"Your shoulder needs time. The bruising is resolving. Neurological exam looks normal today."
Normal.
Larius focused on the word.
Normal.
The doctor continued.
"I want you to continue avoiding strenuous exercise."
"For how long?"
"At least another week before we reassess."
Larius nodded.
"Can I walk?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"As tolerated."
Larius frowned.
"Define tolerated."
The doctor looked at him.
Carl covered his face.
The doctor said:
"If symptoms worsen, stop."
"Which symptoms?"
"Pain. Dizziness. Headache."
"By how much?"
The doctor stared.
Larius waited.
Carl said:
"He's been like this."
Larius looked at him.
"Like what?"
The doctor smiled slightly.
"Mr. Wilarrow, you don't need a numerical threshold for every sensation."
Larius became uncomfortable.
"Numbers help."
"I understand."
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
"But recovery isn't always linear."
Larius knew that.
Marcus had said it.
The hospital had said it.
Sofia had indirectly shouted it.
Plants had demonstrated it.
Apparently the universe had one lesson plan.
The doctor continued.
"If you're walking and your shoulder aches slightly, that doesn't necessarily mean you've caused damage. If your headache increases mildly and settles with rest, note it. If symptoms become severe, persistent, or new, seek care."
Larius frowned.
"So I judge."
"Yes."
"Based on incomplete information."
The doctor blinked.
"Yes."
Larius stared.
The doctor stared back.
Carl began laughing.
Quietly.
Larius looked toward him.
"This is not funny."
Carl nodded.
"Maybe."
Larius hated him.
Outside the clinic, Carl bought two bottles of water.
He handed one to Larius.
Larius opened it.
Drank.
Carl leaned against the car.
"So."
"So."
"You're healing."
"Apparently."
"Doctor said you're healing."
"Slowly."
"Still healing."
Larius drank again.
Carl watched him.
Larius noticed.
"Why are you looking at me?"
"Trying to decide something."
Larius's stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Whether I should ask."
Larius waited.
Carl looked toward the parking lot.
Then back.
"What happened?"
Larius became still.
"The robbery?"
"After."
Larius's fingers tightened around the bottle.
Carl continued.
"You've been weird."
"I have always been weird."
"Different weird."
Larius looked away.
Cars.
Concrete.
A tree near the edge of the parking lot.
Safer.
Carl said:
"You keep staring at people."
Larius's heartbeat increased.
"Then you stop."
Larius said nothing.
"You ask questions differently."
Still nothing.
"And now you say maybe every five seconds."
Larius frowned.
"That is an exaggeration."
"Maybe."
Larius looked at him.
Carl smiled.
Larius did not.
The smile faded.
Carl crossed his arms.
"Larius."
There it was.
Concern.
Maybe.
No.
Facts.
Carl's voice lower.
Expression neutral.
Arms crossed.
Direct attention.
Could mean concern.
Could mean frustration.
Could mean—
Larius closed his eyes.
"Stop."
Carl became quiet.
Larius breathed.
In.
Out.
Again.
The parking lot continued.
Cars.
Distant voices.
Wind.
He opened his eyes.
"I don't know."
Carl waited.
Larius looked at the water bottle.
"I don't know what happened."
"Okay."
"I thought I did."
"Okay."
"I had explanations."
Carl nodded.
"Trauma. Stress. Hypervigilance."
"You told me."
"They're still possible."
"Okay."
Larius's jaw tightened.
"Stop saying okay."
Carl blinked.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what you mean."
Silence.
Carl looked genuinely confused.
Larius continued before he could stop.
"Okay can mean you believe me. Or you don't. Or you're waiting. Or you think I'm unstable. Or you don't understand but you're being polite."
Carl stared.
Larius breathed faster.
"Your arms are crossed. That could mean defensive. Or comfortable. Or cold. Your voice changed. Maybe you're worried. Maybe you're frustrated. Maybe—"
"Larius."
He stopped.
Carl uncrossed his arms.
Deliberately.
Then held both hands out.
"I'm worried."
Larius stared.
Carl continued.
"That's what I mean."
Silence.
"I'm worried because my friend got held at gunpoint, went to the hospital, and now looks like he's trying to solve every human interaction before it happens."
Larius looked down.
Friend.
The word again.
Carl said:
"You can ask."
Larius frowned.
"What?"
"If you don't know what I mean."
"That's inefficient."
Carl laughed once.
"Probably."
Larius looked up.
Carl shrugged.
"Still works."
Larius thought about it.
Observation.
Interpretation.
Alternative explanations.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Or...
Ask.
The concept felt embarrassingly simple.
Larius rubbed his forehead.
"I hate this."
Carl smiled.
"Yeah."
"What does that mean?"
"Amused."
Larius stared.
Carl laughed.
Larius eventually did too.
Sofia noticed the problem within seven minutes.
Larius entered the flower shop.
Fabian sat near the back doing schoolwork.
Sofia was arranging lilies.
She looked up.
"Doctor?"
"Recovering."
"Good."
"Slowly."
"Still good."
Larius walked toward his plant.
Checked the leaves.
Green.
Stem upright.
Soil.
He touched the surface.
Dry.
Deeper.
Slightly moist.
Water?
Maybe.
He looked at Sofia.
"Does this need water?"
Sofia stared.
"You check."
"I did."
"And?"
"Surface is dry. Lower soil has some moisture."
"So?"
Larius looked at the pot.
"Maybe it needs water."
Sofia stared.
Larius waited.
"Maybe?"
"Yes."
"You know."
"No."
"You know."
"I have incomplete information."
Sofia put the flowers down.
Larius immediately regretted everything.
She walked over.
Pressed her finger into the soil.
"Moist."
"Yes."
"Leaves good."
"Yes."
"Stem good."
"Yes."
"So no water."
"Probably."
Sofia's eyes narrowed.
"Probably?"
Larius stepped back slightly.
Fabian looked up.
Sofia pointed at the plant.
"You drown first bulb."
"Environmental failure."
"You drown."
"Allegedly."
"You learn check soil."
"Yes."
"You check soil."
"Yes."
"So?"
Larius looked at the pot.
"No water."
"Good."
"Maybe."
Sofia made a sound in Spanish.
Larius did not know the words.
He understood the emotion perfectly.
Probably.
Fabian was laughing silently.
Larius looked at him.
Fabian wrote:
MAYBE IDIOT
Larius stared.
"You're enjoying this."
Fabian nodded immediately.
No uncertainty.
Larius envied him.
The problem became worse at the library.
Larius visited.
Not working.
Diane had made that extremely clear.
He sat behind the staff desk with tea.
Sam sorted returns.
Nora worked at a computer.
A patron approached.
Older woman.
She looked around.
Held a book.
Moved toward the desk.
Sam was turned away.
Diane was in the back.
The woman stopped.
Looked at Larius.
"Excuse me?"
Larius looked at her.
"Yes?"
"Do you work here?"
He hesitated.
Technically.
Yes.
Currently on medical leave.
Not working today.
But employed.
Maybe—
"Sort of."
The woman frowned.
Nora slowly looked over.
The woman held up the book.
"Can I return this here?"
Larius looked at the returns slot.
Then at the book.
"Probably."
Nora stopped typing.
The woman looked confused.
"Probably?"
Larius realized.
"Yes."
"Okay."
She handed him the book.
Larius stared at it.
He was not supposed to work.
Was accepting a book work?
Probably.
Maybe.
Nora stood.
Took the book from his hand.
"Thank you, ma'am."
The woman left.
Nora turned.
"What was that?"
Larius frowned.
"What?"
"Probably?"
"I corrected."
"After making her question the fundamental structure of a library."
Sam laughed from the cart.
Larius looked at him.
"She asked if a book could be returned at a library."
"Yes."
"The answer was obvious."
"Yes."
"Then why did you say probably?"
Larius opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Nora waited.
Larius sighed.
"I don't know."
Sam looked over.
"Maybe?"
Larius pointed at him.
"Don't."
Sam laughed.
By evening, Larius had used maybe forty-three times.
He knew because he counted after Sofia complained.
The count itself had probably made the problem worse.
He sat at home.
Blue notebook open.
At the top of the page:
PROBLEM: OVERCORRECTION
He stared.
Then wrote:
Original problem:
I make interpretations too quickly.
Current solution:
Question interpretation.
Good.
Then:
New problem:
I question everything.
Larius tapped the pen.
Coffee temperature.
Shoulder pain.
Egg quality.
Carl's concern.
Lily watering.
Library returns.
He wrote each example.
The list became increasingly humiliating.
He leaned back.
Maybe had worked.
That was the dangerous part.
It worked so well once that he had begun using it everywhere.
Breathing exercises.
Same problem.
When he first learned them, he had tried controlling every breath.
In.
Count.
Hold.
Out.
Count.
Again.
He had exhausted himself trying to relax correctly.
Marcus's exercises.
Same problem.
He learned consistency mattered.
Then tried turning consistency into rigid scheduling.
The lily.
Same problem.
He learned water mattered.
Nearly drowned it.
Larius stared at the notebook.
"This is becoming a personality issue."
The apartment did not disagree.
He wrote:
Useful tools become bad when used outside their purpose.
Then stopped.
Too broad?
Maybe.
Larius stared at the word in his mind.
"No."
He kept the sentence.
He continued.
Uncertainty is relevant when information is uncertain.
That seemed obvious.
Painfully obvious.
Not every conclusion requires equal caution.
Coffee warm after testing.
Egg broken.
Shoulder hurts.
Book return goes to library.
Lily soil moist.
Simple.
Larius wrote:
Evidence strength matters.
He stared.
That was the missing piece.
He had treated every interpretation as equally unreliable.
But they weren't.
Seeing someone check a door repeatedly did not strongly prove anxiety.
Feeling pain when moving his shoulder strongly supported that the movement hurt.
A person approaching a library desk with a library book strongly suggested a library-related question.
A dog pulling toward him might be friendly.
Maybe.
Still maybe.
Dogs retained uncertainty.
Larius drew a line.
Then wrote:
Maybe is a tool.
Below it:
Not a home.
He stared.
The sentence felt dramatic.
He disliked dramatic sentences.
He kept it.
At 9:14, Larius left the apartment.
He did not have a reason.
Not a good one.
The walls felt close again.
His shoulder was stiff.
His mind felt worse.
He needed to walk.
Doctor allowed walking.
As tolerated.
Larius still disliked that phrase.
He put on his shoes.
Took his keys.
Phone.
No notebook.
He stopped at the door.
Looked toward the blue notebook.
No.
He left it.
The night air was cooler.
Los Angeles never became completely quiet.
Larius knew that now.
Even residential streets had distant engines.
Music behind windows.
Dogs.
Air conditioners.
Someone laughing somewhere.
The city breathed badly.
Unevenly.
But continuously.
Larius walked.
Slow.
No destination.
His body felt better than the previous day.
Fact.
His shoulder remained stiff.
Fact.
Headache low.
Fact.
He was tired.
Fact.
Larius smiled slightly.
"Look at that."
No maybe.
He continued.
Ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
He reached a small park.
He had passed it before.
Never entered.
At night, it looked different.
Empty.
Mostly.
A bench near the path.
Trees.
A small play area.
Grass.
The lights near the entrance worked.
Farther inside, the park became darker.
Larius stopped.
Dangerous?
Maybe.
He almost laughed.
"Appropriate use."
Night.
Empty park.
Limited visibility.
Some uncertainty was reasonable.
He looked around.
No visible people.
No voices.
No movement near the trees.
Larius remained near the lit section.
Good.
He walked toward the bench.
Sat.
His shoulder relaxed slightly.
He breathed.
Not counted.
Just breathed.
In.
Out.
The city remained beyond the park.
Distant.
Larius leaned back.
His eyes moved upward.
Then stopped.
Stars.
Not many.
Los Angeles light swallowed most of them.
But some remained.
Small.
White.
Scattered.
Larius stared.
One.
Two.
Three.
He stopped counting.
The sky looked enormous.
That thought arrived quietly.
Enormous.
Larius watched.
A strange discomfort moved through his chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
He hadn't looked at stars properly in...
He didn't know.
Before?
The other life?
This life?
Maybe—
He stopped.
No.
He simply looked.
A star flickered.
Atmospheric distortion.
He knew that.
Light passing through moving layers of air.
Probably.
Larius smiled.
There was the word.
But this time it did not bother him.
He looked at another.
How far?
He didn't know.
What star?
Didn't know.
Was it even a star?
Could be a planet.
He didn't know.
Larius waited.
His head remained quiet.
He frowned.
The realization came slowly.
He was thinking.
Not about coffee.
Not about people.
Not about the robbery.
Not about two percent.
He was thinking about something he did not know.
And his head...
didn't hurt.
Larius sat straighter.
The movement pulled his shoulder.
He ignored it for one second.
Then adjusted.
His eyes remained upward.
How far away was that light?
He didn't know.
How old was it?
Didn't know.
Was the star still there?
Maybe.
His breathing stopped.
Not from pain.
Larius waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Nothing.
No pressure.
No spike behind his eyes.
No warning.
No invisible hand pushing his thoughts away.
Larius stared at the sky.
"Maybe."
The word left his mouth.
Soft.
The park remained empty.
His head remained quiet.
Larius's heart began beating faster.
He thought harder.
Stars.
Distance.
Light.
Time.
He remembered basic science.
Nothing advanced.
Light took time to travel.
Some stars were far enough that the light he saw had left years ago.
Maybe hundreds.
Thousands.
He didn't know.
His mind reached.
Carefully.
Curiously.
No pain.
Larius swallowed.
For nearly a month, questions had been dangerous.
Where am I?
Pain.
LAPD.
Pain.
John...
Pain.
The other room.
Pain.
The missing step.
Pain.
Every question connected to before had pushed back.
So Larius had learned.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Questions hurt.
Do not dig.
Do not push.
Do not reach too far.
But now...
He looked upward.
"What are you?"
No answer.
Obviously.
Larius smiled.
His eyes burned slightly.
He blinked.
The stars remained.
He didn't know their names.
That was normal for him.
Names had always been difficult.
Jacob.
Jenkins.
Johnson.
John.
The thought appeared.
Larius froze.
His head remained quiet.
John.
He waited.
Nothing.
No pain.
His smile disappeared.
John.
Someone.
A police uniform.
A thumbnail.
A show.
Rookie.
Larius's pulse accelerated.
Still no headache.
He could push.
The realization frightened him.
He could push.
Right now.
Maybe the wall was gone.
Maybe the hospital.
Maybe the robbery.
Maybe time.
Maybe—
Larius closed his eyes.
"No."
The word came immediately.
He breathed.
Opened his eyes.
Stars.
He looked at them again.
Not tonight.
That surprised him.
For weeks, Larius had wanted answers.
Desperately.
He had hurt himself reaching for them.
Now the door might be open.
And he chose not to walk through.
Not yet.
His head didn't hurt.
That was enough.
Larius leaned back.
Looked upward.
One star.
Another.
Maybe a planet.
He didn't know.
And for the first time since waking beside that bench...
not knowing did not feel like a threat.
It felt like space.
Larius sat alone in the empty park.
His shoulder hurt.
His body was still healing.
His observations were unreliable.
His conclusions were biased.
His strange ability remained unexplained.
He still didn't know why he was here.
He still couldn't remember the man's last name.
John...
Something.
Larius smiled faintly.
"You're going to annoy me, aren't you?"
The stars offered no answer.
Reliable.
Consistent.
Almost as good as the ceiling crack.
Larius stayed on the bench.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
He stopped checking the time.
Above him, old light crossed impossible distances.
Larius knew almost nothing about it.
He had questions.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
And none of them hurt.
That was new.
Quietly new.
The kind of change Larius might have missed a month ago.
But he noticed now.
Of course he did.
He was learning to notice everything.
The useful things.
The useless things.
The wrong things.
And, occasionally...
the things that mattered.
Larius looked at the stars.
He did not open a notebook.
He did not create a baseline.
He did not design rules.
He did not test himself.
For once, Larius Wilarrow simply wondered.
And his mind let him.