Miroslav sank down gratefully into his chair. The day had been a tiring one. The usual round of the key criminals, a call to Sae Davidson in Twelve - he had still not been replaced there despite resigning fifty times over by now - interviewing a teenager who had stabbed her rapist to death, a brief chat with one of the defense lawyers to relax, a session with Basalt Teck the assistant defense counsel (whose issues with food hoarding and binge-eating were a bit too close for comfort), more key criminals, back at the juvenile jail for more interviews, and now a therapy session with one of the judges. At this point, it was rather too late to point out that he was a researcher, not a therapist.

"Good evening," he said to Dora Rescu, who sat down in the armchair opposite him. "How have you been doing lately?"

"Fine." Rescu remained completely impassive. "I just talked on the phone with my husband. Everything is going well."

"What's your husband's name?"

"Jack." Rescu took out her wallet from her pocket. "Here's the photo I have of him."

Jack resembled nothing quite so much as a rat. When young, he might have been considered cute in an awkward way, but age had done him no favours. "That's very nice," Miroslav said. "If you want, you can use anything on this table, by the way." He gestured at the small table he had filled up with fidget toys and all sorts of things like that.

"That will be fine. I am simply in need of advice." Rescu paused, steeling herself. "I know myself to be completely unfit for my task, and yet all of my colleagues rush to reassure me how good of a judge I am. I don't understand it." She sat upright, relaxed and yet alert. As if ready to spend many hours listening to intricate arguments over procedure. "How do I know if I am a good judge or not? I never had to think about it." Her mask dropped, and concern was evident on her face. "I praised myself for doing law exactly as it was written on the page, but in reality, I was like a mechanic using broken tools to fix a car."

"An interesting analogy," Miroslav said. And an accurate one. Laws had been re-written over and over until they eventually reached the point where implementing the law and doing justice were a Venn diagram of two separate circles. "How old are you?"

"Sixty-three."

"Impressive," Miroslav said. "Few people would be willing to reconsider their life's work at such an age. When did you first start feeling that perhaps you had not been doing what you had hoped you would?"

Rescu thought for a few seconds. "I suppose on some level, I was always aware that something was rotten in the state of Panem." Miroslav smiled slightly at the reference. "Bribery was illegal. Highly illegal. If a bribe was large enough, it was a capital offense. But everything ran on bribes, and I was the only judge I knew who didn't take bribes. If one bad apple spoils the bunch, then what can you say about a barrel of rotten apples with a single good one?"

"I'm sure the people you judged fairly appreciated it," Miroslav suggested.

"But that's the thing," Rescu said, voice still perfectly even. "Did I judge them fairly? Or did I measure them against a crooked rod? How could one speak of fairness when the Criminal and Administrative Codes were both unconstitutional?"

Miroslav was taken aback. "The Administrative Code, too?"

Rescu nodded. "Public whipping as a punishment for administrative violations is certainly cruel and unusual."

"Did you ever sentence people to such punishments?"

"When it appeared to be called for? Absolutely."

"And when it wasn't?"

Rescu sighed and seemed to sag slightly. "They're all going on about how I ignored the calls. They forget that I didn't even need calls most of the time. I always stuck to the strictest letter of the law."

From what he could tell, rare was the judge who stuck to the letter of the law instead of implementing whatever directive was handed down from above. Miroslav decided to go at it from a different angle. "What does the law mean to you?"

"The law is rules society binds itself with to let every member of the society live in safety and dignity," Rescu immediately answered. "Legal systems are always flawed, but they are our best option for stopping the ones with power from riding roughshod over those who have none."

And yet, it was the ones in power who wrote laws. Or was she referring to a different kind of power? The bigger child could push over the smaller one, but if they knew it was wrong, they wouldn't. From basic training, Miroslav remembered that when your opponent had a gun and had it pointed at you, there wasn't much you could do. Miroslav said that much, and Rescu nodded.

"That's why they're flawed. Laws are implemented once the crime has been committed. They are the equivalent of patting a child on the head and telling them that the other child was punished for hitting them." Rescu tapped her fingers against the armrests. "And law is always a double-edged sword. It can be used to oppress rather than protect. The laws banning everything from peaceful assembly to anti-corruption investigations-"

"That was illegal?" Miroslav cut in, shocked. "But how?"

Rescu chuckled dryly. "Apparently the property of government and legal officials is a state secret."

As the conversation continued, Miroslav became convinced that, had she lived in a place where laws were just, she would have been a fine, if rather strict, judge. She was not personally biased against the lower classes, had not taken a bribe since her adolescent years, and made her own decisions in every single case. Her reluctance to take into consideration mitigating circumstances was a point against her, and the fact still remained that she had willingly served such a horrific system, perpetuating its injustices. A lack of personal bias meant nothing when the system itself was rigged against the poor.

"The defense is up in arms because they can't talk to their clients in privacy," Rescu said at Miroslav's prompting about how fair the proceedings were. "Of course, anything the guards overhear will not be taken into consideration, but it is still a violation of attorney-client privilege."

"And how does that make you feel about the trial?"

Rescu looked at him as if he was an idiot. "The IDC is doing the best it can. Had they wanted injustice, the trials would have already happened and the defendants - shot. The shortcomings are real, but there are precious few precedents for us to rely on. We're struggling to arrange for as much as air conditioning in the courtroom."

Miroslav nodded along. "If it's going to happen during the summer, you'll certainly need air conditioning."

"Definitely. I don't want to have to recess because it's too hot."

"Would you?"

"We wouldn't have a choice - at our age, it would certainly not be beneficial to sit in an overheated courtroom for hours on end," she joked.

Half an hour later, Miroslav had another appointment to get to, according to the notes he made on his arm with purple permanent marker. He had to be in court soon. "Well," he said. "This has been a very informative session. If you are interested in continuing, I can refer you to another psychologist."

"That would be nice," Rescu said.

Miroslav handed her a form to fill in. "What are you going to take away from this session?"

"Go talk to someone about my problems instead of moping about them like my adolescent grandchildren."

Miroslav thought about Biljana. He really needed to call her before his parents made good on their threat and dragged him back to Thirteen. "Oh, are they like that?" he said sympathetically. "My daughter's just about at that age, and I must admit I am a little bit worried."

Rescu smiled sadly. "Exciting, isn't it?"

"So, how did that go?" Juan asked, looking up from his copy of the 1948 Geneva Conventions. It said a lot about the state of the world that that was the most recent version.

"It was strange," Dora said, sitting down on the couch. Juan had been the one to give her the idea of going to a professional. He himself had done so, and claimed that it helped. "We talked about a whole lot of things, but I don't think we even brought up the main issue. I still feel better, though."

Juan nodded and closed his book, setting it aside. "Mine seemed to be convinced that I was a hero of some sort. I said, look, Doctor, heroes don't get bonuses from Snow." Dora chuckled appreciatively. She herself had never gotten bonuses, as she had been seen as too much of a wild card, despite her total predictability. Back then, judging everyone equally had been strange and confusing.

Dora realized that she had just thought more or less positively about herself. Maybe that was progress. "I think it helped, though. Having a neutral observer say these things about me."

"I thought so, too. Who were you talking to?"

"Dr. Miroslav Aurelius."

Juan nodded appreciatively. "Isn't he the head psychologist at the jail?"

"That's what I thought. He talks to the defendants, hears their complaints every single day. If he's willing to be positive about the tribunal, he is bound to be a very good psychologist." Dora had heard that five or so years ago, he had gone to an international conference. Thirteen hadn't just sent out anyone to conferences.

Sarah Lai bounded down the stairs holding a boxy television in her hands. "Look what I found!" she said.

Living with the assistants was eerily reminiscent of having the grandchildren stay the night at her house. "How nice," Dora said blandly. "Why don't you plug it in so we can see what's new in the world?"

What was new in the world was that a group of graduate students studying chemistry at the university in One were suing the institution and their advisor for forcing them to replicate an ancient paper (from 1962!) that had not been replicated in centuries with good reason, as dioxygen difluoride was apparently an unimaginably reactive compound, and given the usual budget theft, the lack of proper safety precautions had resulted in multiple deaths and countless injuries all in the name of trying to develop a super-weapon.

"The worst thing was," one of the young researchers, who had no face due to a fiery explosion, said, "was that they all knew it wouldn't work!" Their voice was mushy and slurred, and their lower lip stuck out exposing a handful of crooked teeth. "Not with our budget, at least. The higher-ups just ordered us to mix the most reactive compounds in the world and see what happened! Like - hey, student, take this compound that ignites ice, this other compound that ignites sand, and mix them together on your lab bench! Who cares if there's an explosion, there are always more students fighting for spaces!" They jabbed a hand without fingers at the camera and used their other hand, which had two fingers, to wipe their mouth with a cloth. "And then they refused to pay my hospital bills! I told my supervisor that in the Capitol I'd have gotten prosthetics and new teeth and everything for free, and she told me to cease my dangerous speech! The District mayor would have gone bankrupt trying to pay for the treatment of such massive burns out of pocket, and here she was going on about dangerous speech! I'm a TA, I can't be walking around with mincemeat for a mouth, my students struggle to understand what I'm saying!"

Juan was wiping his face with a handkerchief - his daughter was a chemist with United Chemicals & Rubber, which currently had an antitrust case being prepared against it, as well as a trial of personnel for how they had developed pharmaceuticals and treated workers. "And here I was thinking being a researcher is a stable career," he said weakly.

"No kidding. And if this is how they treated the rich kids who could afford university-"

"What's that got to do with anything?" Guzman asked. "Everyone always pushes the nasty work down the hierarchy. That's just how it works."

On the screen, an adjunct professor wearing a sports bra and knee-length shorts to demonstrate the massive scarring she received from an explosion tearing her apart with shards of glass cracked dark jokes about having worked in the Devil's own kitchen and seen hellfire with her own eyes. There was a colostomy bag attached to her stomach, and a massive scar signified where her organs had been hopelessly damaged.

"See? My shoulder is damaged to the point where I can't get dressed," she said as a fellow young scholar, who was on oxygen despite his young age, helped her put on a sweater. "But hey, at least I do not fear hell now - there is nothing there worse than the fires burning your coworker alive in front of your eyes!"

Dora was not inclined to laugh along, not when the worst that had happened to her own children as interns in law school had been harassment and fifteen-hour days.

"Lieutenant Vance!" a guard called out from behind him. Stephen stopped in his tracks. The guards didn't as much as twitch.

"Yes?"

"Lieutenant, there's something you need to take a look at. Deputy Warden Tiller sent me."

Stephen shot a final glance at Lee, who was drawing with crayons on the wall, and nodded. "Of course." The two of them set down the corridor. Once they were out of eyeshot, the sounds of Don't Lock Me Away floated in, just faintly audible. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's a problem with one of the new incarcerated witnesses," the guard said. She was one of the older ones, a black-market dealer of around twenty-eight or thirty originally from Thirteen. "They're not sure if he can be kept in a cell."

"The local hospital will make room." Stephen said that confidently even though he felt no confidence on that matter.

"That's the thing, he's not sick or anything. At least, not sick enough to be hospitalized. He's- you'll see."

Stephen hated surprises, but he couldn't blame someone who spent more time worrying about fencing stolen goods than about her job for not being able to understand what was going on. They made their way to his office, where it took Stephen quite a bit of effort to hide his shock.

On the chair in front of his desk was a handcuffed child in rags, their head completely bald. They must have been just shaved against lice.

The guard closed the door and stood in front of it. Stephen studied the child for a fraction of a second before turning to her. "Uncuff him," he said, "and give him the flask from your left trousers pocket." She kept two flasks - one with alcohol and another with fruit juice. To some of the Thirteeners, sugar was as desirable as alcohol. "Oh, and the candy bars, too."

The boy looked around warily. At first glance, it was impossible to tell gender or age, but when Stephen looked closer, he became reasonably certain that this was a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy.

"Yes, lieutenant," the guard said reluctantly, handing over the goods. Stephen wasn't sure if the guards mocked him when they hid contraband on their persons or if they were really so incompetent as to assume that he wouldn't catch them. Given that his force consisted of small-time gangsters and orphaned children, either or both could have been true.

Speaking of orphans. The boy put the two chocolate bars in his pocket and took a few sips from the flask, eyes widening at the taste.

"Is it good?" Stephen asked.

The boy nodded.

"Once we get you registered, you can have it regularly."

"In jail?" the boy asked.

"You're not under arrest," Stephen said. To the guard, he said, "Where's his file?"

"In my pocket."

Stephen took the piece of paper. This was Quint Stanczak, thirteen years old, born and raised in a small town on the outskirts of the Capitol. Constantly held back in school due to working in the fields instead of attending class, he had finished two grades and quit as soon as he turned twelve to work with his parents as a field hand. Joined up with a volunteer brigade at the outbreak of hostilities, sent to Nine, participated in mass executions. Was given a place at the Witness House, but ran away multiple times. Since he was a potentially crucial witness against one of the incarcerated Peacekeepers, his brigade commander, he needed to be held somewhere secure.

Irons could probably enter this file into evidence and have half the defendants hanged on the spot. Stephen looked at the boy. He was painfully skinny, with sunken cheeks and eyes that seemed to be looking out of a very long tunnel. "Come on, Quint," he sighed. "At the Witness House, you can eat three times a day and have a warm bed to sleep in. Why do you run away?"

Quint shrugged.

"Patricia Kezen says she can't spare the time for you anymore," Stephen said. Kezen was the Witness House coordinator. A onetime socialite, she was now using her mansion to house potential witnesses, from NCIA officers still wearing uniform trousers to survivors from Twelve. "And since you're such a crucial witness, I'm afraid we'll have to take more severe measures."

"Witness?" Quint asked, gnawing on a chocolate bar. The guard watched him eat her profits with pure misery etched on her face, as if she wasn't selling sugar by the ton and a single chocolate bar was nothing to her profit margins. "Yeah, right. All the other Peacekeepers are also witnesses, but they'll just be sent off to the Districts to be hanged after they witness."

"Is that why you ran away?"

"Nah. I just didn't like it there. Too many rules." He swallowed a chunk of chocolate and candy. "But I guess that too. They kept on saying I wouldn't be tried, but they were lying."

Stephen went to the newest addition to his and Tiller's office - a microwave one of the guards had offered as a bribe. Stephen had had him arrested for running a drug ring from his barracks, but had kept the microwave. He now took a packet of instant noodles gifted to him by Tiller and used water from a bottle on his desk to make the boy dinner. "Here you go."

"Wow."

As the boy devoured the noodles, Stephen cleared up the situation. "You aren't going on trial, not now, not ever. What you did in Nine cannot be held against you because of your age. We will let you go after you testify."

"Then why can't I live on my own?" Quint asked, face splattered with reddish broth. "I promise I'll come back when I have to."

"Because someone your age cannot live on their own, and you clearly are not interested in staying with your parents." According to the file, Quint's parents were alive and trying to find him.

Quint drank some juice, looking uncomfortable at the mention of parents. That was worrying. "So what are you going to do with me?" he asked mulishly, unaware that according to the law, children twelve and older could live alone as long as they were not in school (and thus, presumably, employed).

"We'll get you a cell in the witness wing. The door will be unlocked, and you can come and go whenever you want, but there will be a tracking anklet on your ankle. If you go too far, it will hurt." He had meant to keep the only anklet he had for something extremely important, and this seemed like the appropriate time.

"Hurt - how much?"

"At first, it will be like a leg cramp, but once you get more than fifteen metres too far, your body will feel like jelly and you'll be lying on the ground crying in pain. Believe me, I tried it on myself. It's not fun."

"Huh." Quint looked pensive as he drank the last of the broth. "Can I have more?"

"Of course." Stephen made him another bowl. "Now, there is another option. I can simply let you go home to your parents."

Quint almost leapt into the air. "Fuck that," he snapped. "I'd just run away. I don't care what you stick on my ankles, I'd rather die." Despite his bravado, he seemed to be absolutely terrified, and Stephen's heart broke for the boy. How could a child be afraid of returning to his parents? Had Stephen been Quint's father, he'd have done everything to make him comfortable.

Stephen kicked himself mentally. He hadn't as much as gone on a date in who knew how long, and he was sitting here daydreaming about adopting a child he had just met? Unprofessional. "If you want," Stephen said carefully, "you can tell me or someone else about why you don't want to go back, and we can find another place for you to stay."

"What, like a Community Home?" Quint's bowl was empty again. Stephen remembered he had been given two fresh apples as a bonus from higher-ups. He now reached into his drawer, where they had been lying in anticipation of being eaten by him and Tiller later today, and gave both to Quint after quickly rinsing them off with some water.

"Do you want that?"

Quint snorted. "That'll be worse than the Witness House. I said, too many rules. I'm done following rules."

"There are plenty of rules here," Stephen reminded him. "You will be expected to stay in your cell during the night."

The sound of soft apples crunching filled the room. "As if I want to sleep in the streets," Quint said with a sad chuckle. "And at least I'll fit in here. I don't want to be stuck with a bunch of little kids at the Community Home."

"Most of the children there will be your age, or older," Stephen reminded Quint. The youngest ones got adopted the fastest. His parents said that it seemed like half of Thirteen was now orphans from all over the country.

"Yeah, but who's ever heard of combat veterans in a Community Home?"

He sounded like the underage guards, just as fiercely protective of whatever maturity he thought he possessed thanks to having been thrown into combat against all reason and logic. Stephen wondered if it was normal for teenagers to think they were grown up and responsible. He himself had been raised in an atmosphere of discipline and had always liked the stability.

"Then why not the Witness House?"

Quint grimaced. "Too many strange people."

Did he mean District people? Stephen couldn't fault a child who had been forced to participate in mass shootings for being awkward about people he associated with the victims. "Well," Stephen said, "why don't we get you settled in now. Have you given your deposition yet?"

"What's that?"

"It's when the lawyers interview you so they know what they can use your testimony for. Once it gets closer to your appearance in court, they'll teach you how to talk in court."

"Alright." The first apple was gone. Not even the seeds remained. The second one was on its way to a similar state. When was the last time Quint had eaten anything?

"We'll also get you some check-ups to make sure you're fine."

"Sure."

There was a knock on the door. "Lieutenant!" It was Tiller. "Lieutenant, we need you in the third wing!"

Third wing - male 'lesser' criminals. "Why don't you two keep each other company?" Stephen told Quint and the guard. "Give him some gum."

The guard stared at him incredulously. Had she really thought he wouldn't notice the outline of the little packet in her pocket?

In the third wing, several guards were standing by and watching as one of the prisoners threw his shoes around the corridor while screaming about not being allowed to sleep. Stephen checked his watch - it was, indeed, time to sleep.

"Just turn off the fucking lights for once!" Rence Holder screamed as he threw a shoe at the wall. According to Dr. Mallow, he was almost an anomaly - a neurodivergent career Peacekeeper. He had arrived two days ago and had spent most of that time complaining about noises and light distracting him. Stephen had assumed that if he could survive being a cadet he could put up with this. Clearly, he had been mistaken. "I told you, I can't sleep!" His voice rose to a shriek and tears appeared in his eyes. "I just want to sleep, you assholes! Stop fucking searching me when I'm trying to sleep!" He picked up his shoe from the floor and threw it at the wall as hard as he could.

"Lieutenant, what do we do?" one of the guards hissed. "We were taking him to shower but he flipped out. Dr. Mallow said not to restrain him if he wasn't hurting anyone."

Stephen wanted to tear out his hair by the roots. "Get Dr. Mallow," he said calmly.

"She's busy."

"Then get another psychiatrist."

Fortunately, someone had the presence of mind to do just that.

Holder continued to take out his rage on his shoes for a little while longer until he stopped and leaned against the wall, sobbing. "Why aren't you letting me sleep?" he asked Stephen, who walked up to him. Holder was middle-aged, with buzz-cut dark hair starting to go grey.

"Why aren't you in handcuffs?"

"He knows I don't like handcuffs. They're uncomfortable." That was said with an expression of perfect sincerity. The lower-ranking Peacekeepers were generally atrocious liars, so Stephen felt more or less confident in deciding he was being honest there. The psychologist in the jail in Eleven where Holder had been taken prisoner had claimed that he was fit to stand trial, but it was looking like another evaluation would be required. Holder wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. "I was just trying to sleep. It's hard enough to sleep when the lights are on and the radio is playing and I have to sleep on my back. I can't sleep on my back. And my hands were cold."

Cutting down on the restrictions was out of the question. Holder was as much a suicide risk as anyone else, even if he wasn't currently an active one. Stephen decided to go through it in order. "I'm sure you can tolerate a bit of discomfort," Stephen said. "You've been in the field for decades!"

Holder shrugged, twisting his hands together. "Being in here has me constantly on the brink of a meltdown. And I did struggle with lots of things back when I was a Peacekeeper. It should be in my files, they interrogated me all about it."

"So, you are not actually troubled by the handcuffs," Stephen stated.

Holder moved on to fiddling with his sleeves. He must have been constantly punished at his Academy for not being able to stand at attention properly. Or perhaps he could stop fidgeting, but it simply took effort he could not waste now? Stephen's cousin June's boyfriend had ASD, but he also had a moderate intellectual disability, so that was hardly relevant for Holder. He'd need to ask around his staff if anyone had ASD and could give him some advice.

"Not really," Holder said. "If it's only for a few minutes, I can brace myself." He scratched his face. "Also, this is going to sound really dumb, but I can't stand how inconsistently we're shaved. Can't it be on a regular schedule or something?"

Stephen himself was fully in agreement there. Most of the men looked extremely slovenly without daily shaving. This lowered self-perception and was reflected in how they cleaned their cells. And it reflected poorly on the jail warden if the inmates looked like they had just been found living in a basement with no running water. "Unfortunately, no. But I'm sure you have ways of coping with chaotic schedules." Holder would get along splendidly with Dr. Aurelius. The psychologist had taken to writing his schedule on his arm with marker. Stephen himself missed the stability of Thirteen a great deal.

"Yes, but that's the problem! I'm having to cope with everything at once and it's breaking my brain."

There were some things Stephen could do. "I'll get you a piece of cloth to cover your eyes," he said, "and I would suggest wearing socks on your hands."

"That's allowed?" Holder asked incredulously.

"It is. And I'll tell them to let you sleep on your side, as long as your face and hands are fully visible. And, of course, I will tell them to stop with that infernal radio. It is forbidden. If you ever hear it, you may complain even if it's the middle of the day."

The guard next to him failed at hiding his disappointment. If Holder was so literal he didn't realize that one could put socks on their hands, he would certainly take this as a command to complain every single time even a single note of Don't Lock Me Away could be heard. The others preferred to not complain to him in order to not alienate those bringing them sweets and coffee.

That dealt with, Stephen could go back to his office, where Quint and the guard were blowing bubbles. His shift today was until midnight, but he had begun to sleep in the side room in his office, freeing up time for solving the myriad problems he had to deal with on his own. "Let's get you settled in," he said to Quint. "A proper supper first, and then a shower." Turning to the guard, he added, "Go back to what you were doing before."

"Sure," Quint said.

"Yes, lieutenant."

There were sure to be leftovers in the kitchens. Stephen led Quint there, wondering if he'd ever sit down to eat with children of his own.

A strange sound woke up Dora. Just outside the window, someone had walked by, completely off the path and far from any entrances. Thieves? The area was well-patrolled, so that was unlikely. Heart in her throat, Dora walked up to her window and tossed back the curtains.

Someone's leg disappeared from view just a fraction of a second later. They were climbing up the house.

Dora tried to think of what sort of weapons were in the house. The MPs were known to be corrupt, but would they sell guns to any random person who asked? Probably. In any case, there wasn't much one could do against a trigger-happy person with a gun. She'd have to surprise them somehow, sneak up on them.

It only entered Dora's mind that she was doing something crazy when she put on her bathrobe over her old T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms and stepped outside her room. Juan was doing the same thing as her, though he had paused to put on slippers. Dora was just in her socks.

"You heard that, right?" Dora said quietly.

"Yeah," Juan muttered. "What do we do?"

The best course of action was probably to call the MPs. The problem was that the assistants were on the second floor, though even if the intruder had something more nefarious than simply robbing a rich house in mind, having more people show up to repel them would probably scare them off.

Dora didn't think that made sense, but there was no time to think. "Let's grab the mops and let's go."

They got mops from the nearby cupboard and made their way up the stairs in silence. So far, it seemed like the assistants hadn't heard the noise and weren't being attacked - or was one of them being held at knifepoint? On the second floor, there were no signs of anything suspicious, but suddenly, Dora heard a faint noise in the attic.

"They got in through the attic and are still there," she whispered to Juan.

Another set of stairs. Cautiously, Dora and Juan peeked around the corner and saw... Encarnacion, completely naked, embracing another woman on the way to also being naked. The two judges cautiously retreated back to the first floor.

"Why couldn't they go out to a club like normal people?" Dora asked nobody in particular as she put her mop away. "They're certainly paid well enough to buy anything they want."

Juan shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't like the scene?"

"Encarnacion? Even I know she most definitely likes that scene." Dora decided to not waste a second more of her life contemplating that. "There's no way I'll be able to sleep now," she sighed.

"I remember I caught my daughter with a girl in her bed," Juan reminisced. "That ever happen to you?"

"Fortunately, no, in neither capacity." Dora felt wide awake even though it was the middle of the night - and the indictment was being filed tomorrow! The tribunal would be sworn in! "How about a cup of chamomile tea?" she offered. "We can sleep in a bit tomorrow, but I don't fancy falling asleep just as Raymond tries to say something important."

"Sounds like a plan."

They made their way to the kitchen, Dora planning how she'd tell Jack all about this. He'd definitely laugh about it. Oh, if only he could be with her! Juan was a good friend, but there was nothing better than drinking tea with her husband.

A/N: The paper the unfortunate grad students were trying to replicate is this: https colon slash slash pubs dot acs dot org/doi/abs/10 dot 1021/ja00893a004 A chemist has written about why they will never work with the compound that has the eerily meaningful name FOOF (as everything it touches goes 'foof') here: https colon slash slash www dot science dot org/content/blog-post/things-i-won-t-work-dioxygen-difluoride

"The heater was warmed to approximately 700C. The heater block glowed a dull red color, observable with room lights turned off. The ballast tank was filled to 300 torr with oxygen, and fluorine was added until the total pressure was 901 torr...

"And yes, what happens next is just what you think happens: you run a mixture of oxygen and fluorine through a 700-degree-heating block. "Oh, no you don't," is the common reaction of most chemists to that proposal, "...not unless I'm at least a mile away, two miles if I'm downwind." This, folks, is the bracingly direct route to preparing dioxygen difluoride, often referred to in the literature by its evocative formula of FOOF."

And then add to this corruption forcing the poor grad students to use defective equipment. Losing your face to a chemical fire is far from the worst that could happen when you mix two compounds both renowned for igniting sand and ice basically on your lab bench. By the way, the 'faceless' young scholar looks something like this young man, though her diction is much worse than his:

youtube dot com/watch?v=sIcLiC3VnTk