Observatory, quarter-past nine. Quarter-past nine meant 9:15, as 15 was a quarter of 60, the number of minutes in a hour, minutes and hours being the units used to tell time, without any mix-up between Metric System and Imperial System. Quarter-past nine meant 9:15, plain and simple.
 Looking at the observatory clock didnât help to pass the time, but it did tell her when she was 30 minutes early rather than 45, then only 20 minutes early, and then a mere quarter-before-quarter-past nine. All the while she fidgeted subtly, idle fingers twisting in her lap. It wasnât that she was an impatient person; on the contrary, Sparrow had a truly endless amount of patience. But she was also self-conscious, nervous of over-stepping boundaries, worried about her classmate.
 The clock was her anchor, steady and true. It told her when it was finally the promised time, 9:15âand it told her every minute afterwards when Merrick didnât appear. Tension built in a small knot between Sparrowâs shoulder blades and uncertainty twisted, twisted, tangled in her fingers. Perhapsâperhaps he had fallen asleep? Perhaps he had simply lost track of time, and time had lost track of him.
 (Or, perhaps, he had been relieved to escape Sparrowâs mother henning and the observatory was the last place he would be tonightâ)
 But no, no, there he was, heading for her at a quick pace, looking as though heâd just rolled out of bed and stood in front of a high-powered fan. Of course. It made sense than he would have fallen asleep, after all the excitement of the day.
 âAh, no, itâs alrightâŠ!â Seeing him so out of breath, Sparrow bit her lip over her reflexive concerns. Extreme physical activity wasnât good for a concussionâif he had a concussion. If, if, if. She had to remember that lest she accidentally (figuratively) smother him.
 Then she noticed the sunglasses.
 âAhâyour glasses, are they forâ? Do you have a headache?â Concerns slipped loose, hand fluttering in a gesture caught between motioning towards his eyes and her own temple. âAreâŠdo your eyes hurt? When you look at lights, or, or like thereâs a pressure behind them?â
 Doubt surged in her gut. She shouldnât have had him meet her (forgetting completely that he would have gone anyway); she should have taken him to the health center from the start; if he was already experiencing light sensitively, she should take him to the health center now.
While doubt wracked Sparrowâs intestines, guilt and trepidation washed over Merrick as his heart rate settled, his breathing slowly but eventually evening outâwell, as much as it ever did, anyway. The running hadnât helped his already-shaky respiration, and he hacked, once, holding up a finger for pause as he pulled himself together. He took a moment to fully compose himself before responding; though the delay itself could be problematic, he figured a wobbly reply would only exacerbate Sparrowâs concerns more. His right antenna tightened around the pen. He couldnât have that.
Merrick took a deep breath, then flashed his characteristic, easy-going grin.
âWhat, worried my headâs getting too big from how fast I just ran? That mustâve been a campus recordâno, a world record, quick, call the Guinness peopleââ Catching sight of Sparrowâs wavering gesture, Merrick checked himself before the shenanigans could go too far. He ran a hand through his hair sheepishly.  âNahhh, Iâm fine~ Itâs a fashion statement! Gotta stay cool twenty-four/seven~â He tweaked the glasses cheekily, broadcasting the wink he knew couldnât be seen behind the lenses.
