"Excuse me Miss?"  The man looked at a handwritten note, he seemed on the verge of emotion but unsure which to pick.  "The note says, (i)Ruler Girl(i).  Is it Miss Ruler Girl?" 

     "Well, it ain't Mrs. But tell my father that." 

     The man rubbed his temple.  He'd been paired with Therapy/Performance Art people and this was giving him a headache.  At the end of the day he would tell the Higher Education people, "I'm not sure this is the best pairing." 

     "You mean (i)you(i) with the subject matter?" 

     This caused him to think (i)risk(i), (i)opportunity(i), (i)motive(i), and (i)agenda(i).  "Not saying that." He looked at the sad, soft suitcase on the bed and felt compelled to wonder out loud (i)Is this what you want?(i) but he didn't.  "From an academic standpoint I can see where some of this overlaps, but..." his voice dropped off.  She looked at him.  "It's what they did." A quiet.  "How they rearranged (i)everything(i)." 

     "Who's they?" 

     "The Department." 

     "So...the Establishment?" 

     "Well, yeah, kind of, it's," she put her lighter sweater inside her heavier sweater, "It's complicated young man." 

     He did not consider himself (i)young(i) by any standards.  His portfolio was the proof of not being young.  The aches and pains in his body constant reminder of not being young.  Each day more and more people looking to him for answers about (i)purpose(i) and (i)meaning(i) seemed to indicate (i)no longer young(i). 

     "Stick with it," she ordered but in a more (i)there's something for you in it(i) way than the kind of orders he was used to.  "We have to go to D.C., meetings, diplomacy, maybe a theatre thing." 

     "And then you'll be back?" 

     "Presumably."

     The summer bugs outside the cabin were not roaring as loudly as they were five weeks before.

     "What's the note say?" 

     He instinctively put it in his pocket.  "Did you say your father treats you like his Mrs.?" His eyes locked on hers and held the target in an intense gaze.  "Yeah, since Mom 'died' or might as well have, the big D--(i)divorce(i), and, (i)Oh my God(i), you probably thought, oh shit, I mean (i)dammit(i), that came out wrong." The man said nothing and followed her eyes the entire time they dramatically bounced around with each chip at the sculpture between them.  "You're still looking at me.  You probably think I'm lying or something now." He looked away.  Eyes fell on laundry on a line.  Many sizes of clothing.  "Let's start over.  (i)I am(i) ruler girl." He blinked and looked back at her extended hand.  First he said, "Okay.  Okay."  Then he said "Germs," but he found himself extending his own hand to not (i)not(i) shake her hand.  "Hello.  I am Charles.  But everybody calls me," he withheld (i)the old nickname(i).  She pulled her hand away at (i)germs(i) and put falling hair behind her ear instead.  "Cha, I got (i)ruler girl(i) as a kid.  Keeping everybody in line." His hand made it's way back to his pocket. "Not hitting anyone with my rulers so no worries there." He withdrew the note.  "Only my own ass.  When it gets too fat, I whap myself a few times on my butt, like (i)wake up, wake up(i)." 

     "How old are you?" 

     "Excuse me?" 

     He let one hand with the note find the other hand and looked down at it.  "A poem," he showed the note quickly, but put it back in his pocket.  She sighed.  "I haven't had time to write anything or play any music since I got here."  He blew out a breath like a soft note on a trumpet.  "Tell me about it." 

     "Nineteen," she said.  "A bunch of us are," she looked at the cloud just passing the sun, "Stuck.  At nineteen."