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“It’s a weird idea,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“It requires her to agree.”

“Obviously.”

“And you have to actually talk to her first, which requires finding her, which requires⁠—”

“Wren can get me to Sloane.”

Cash looks at me. “Wren doesn’t like you.”

“Wren tolerates me.”

“Wren finds you acceptable, which with Wren is basically the same as toleration.”

“Can you get me an introduction?”

He’s quiet for another moment. Then he exhales, long and slow, the sound of a person committing to something. “Yeah,” he says. “I can get you an intro.” He points at me. “But you should know that if Sloane Beckett says no, which she might, we never speak of this again.”

“Agreed.”

“And if she says yes⁠—”

“She might say yes.”

“If she says yes,” Cash continues, “you’re going to have to actually do this. Convincingly. Which means you have to be present, and consistent, and you can’t just — go Captainy and disappear into preseason the second it gets complicated.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I look at him. “Yes.”

He holds the look for a second, checking the real answer the way he always does. Then he nods, and picks up his water, and we sit on the porch in the midnight quiet while the maples move in the dark overhead.

“Margaret,” he says again, after a while.

“I know.”

“She’s going to be completely⁠—”

“I know, Cash.”

He grins. Drops it. We sit there for another few minutes, not talking, the campus quiet and the lamppost doing its lamppost thing, and I think about the shape of the plan and the fact that it depends entirely on a woman I spoke to for approximately five minutes agreeing that the plan makes sense.

She might say no.

She probably should say no.

But the thing about tonight — the Evan thing, the Bella thing, the overheard conversation on the porch — is that it painted a very clear picture of what the next few months look like if nothing changes. Sloane, holding her line alone, with two people and their plans pushing at it from different sides. Composed, precise, capable — and completely isolated, which is exactly what both of them are counting on.

She’s got no one else. He knows that.

I breathe out.

I press my thumb into the heel of my palm and look at the dark campus and think about Mormor, who has been saying this woman’s name to me for two years with the weight of someone placing a bet she’s confident about. Mormor, who does not make mistakes about people. Who reads them the way I read a room — fast, accurate, and without needing to be told twice.