Four in the morning, somewhere. I had stopped tracking. The patch had gone together in a way that felt obvious once I was in it — the right variable named the right thing, the right condition in the right place, six lines that sat down cleanly in the file as if the file had been waiting for them. I re-read it. It was good. I sent it. I wanted to start the next thing. My chair felt fine. My eyes felt fine. I had been a pair of hands on a keyboard for some number of hours and the hours had all been the same one long hour. The apartment and the kitchen window might as well have not existed.
