INVENTORY OF WHAT THE GEARS ATE One morning meeting, partially digested Two school drop-offs (the second one still warm) Three task lists, nested inside each other like matryoshka Four half-sentences spoken to a child who was already leaving the room Five minutes of staring at a wall, mistaken for strategy Six browser tabs, each a small betrayal of the last Seven slack messages marked urgent by someone else's clock Eight years of promising this is temporary Nine p.m., the house finally still, and you don't remember sitting down One toy truck found under the desk at 11:47, still warm from a hand that wasn't yours