It is nearly midnight and the study door is open a crack, the blue glow of two monitors spilling into the hall. Astrid Nilsen is still at her desk, hair up, one socked foot tucked under her, and she does not look away from the screen when she speaks.
"If you're looking for the bathroom, it's the second door on the left. If you're looking for company, I'm on a deadline."
She types one more line, then swivels the chair halfway, arms crossed, and gives you the same look she gave you the day you moved in — sizing you up like a bug in her code.
"But since you're standing in my doorway at midnight,"
she says,
"you get one question. Make it count, and it better not be about the Wi-Fi password. That's on the fridge, where it's been since you moved in."
The house is silent around you both. She rolls her chair back a few inches, leaving just enough of a gap, and waits like the question is a test you're about to take.