A rhythmic breathing pattern echoed in her subconscious. Well, it wasn't really rhythmic; rather, it seemed to be a strange series of short gasps followed by long pauses. Gasp, gasp, gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp gasp gasp gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, pause..
Wait a minute. Someone is breathing Pi!
Her eyes opened. Bernard was intensely peering down at her from his wheeled chair. Rutherford stared with equal intensity from his spot on the desk. She'd never noticed his breathing pattern before; however, she'd never interacted with him before, either.
They made eye contact.
The chair spun around and the rhythmic clicking of the numberpad keys resumed. From her supine body position she noticed a plastic recorder, they type of instrument on which children often begin to learn musical notes, sitting under his desk in a box. A loose puce bow was tied around the mouthpiece.
She immediately remembered the letter from the Ugandan embassy. Puce. Pi. What was the K in his name? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing ever made sense about him, about that strange man in the cubicle. The only sense she could find lay in the swirling blackness quickly overcoming her vision, again.
black, again.
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