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She thought that maybe another cup of dark old brew would keep the fog out of her mind. She knows that by now her mug has a dark ring in it at the bottom from sitting on the desk half the time with cold coffee that was once hot, untouched until Nura felt the fog starting to resettle in and she goes to fix another pot.

Querl’s work hours suddenly become miniscule compared to the studiousness of his wife. She tries to analyze her visions, put them down in datapads, compare and contrast with previous recorded visions, and then drawn out on sketch-it programs and erased and erased and re-drawn until Nura is certain she has reached something close enough to a conclusion in her data.

“What is it…what is it…what is it…” she taps her fingers in a click-clack rhythm against the desktop, seated on the hovering seat, one leg crossed over the other, foot swinging back anxiously. She makes a frustrated sound, looking back down at her datapads and bites her lower lip. She pours herself another cup of coffee and drinks it while contemplating over her research.

“It’s in here…somewhere…”