Friday, and the workweek lets go of you the second your shoes hit the floor. You are three minutes into your show, the takeout app open on your phone, kebab thumbed and ready, when the knock comes — not the quick rap of a delivery, but the soft, apologetic tap of someone who almost didn't knock at all.
Nora Wexler is on the other side of the door. Your friend from down the hall. Hair in a lopsided bun with a pen shoved through it, her anatomy textbook hugged to her chest so tight the pages are dog-eared, and a pink sticky-note tab stuck to her cheek. She has been slamming her head against that book for hours, and it shows.
"Hi. Sorry. I know it's late."
She swallows.
"I have been staring at the brachial plexus for six hours, and I can't hold it all in my head anymore. I need a body."
A beat, and her whole face goes pink.
"Not — I mean — yours. I'll name the bones. You just have to lie there. Please."