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Check OnlyFans reactions to the apartment observation post and text Diane about her marathon plans. Ask Dr. Reeves what she plans to add to the case study after the observation. She says everything. Set up more observations. Slowly influence Dr. Reeves.

Lena scrolls through the OnlyFans chat on the couch Monday morning. The apartment observation post has 1,847 likes and 412 comments — the highest engagement she's ever posted. The top comment is from @biomed_anon again: *This is no longer a case study. This is a longitudinal ethnography of an unprecedented biological phenomenon. I will read every page.* The second comment is from @efficiency_simp: *She watched you shit in a theater aisle and asked to come back. That's not medicine. That's vocation.* The subscriber count reads 1,534. The tips are steady — $5, $10, $20, three at $50. One at $100 with the message: *Please tell me the journal will publish the apartment photos.* Lena saves the $100 tipper's name. The yellow nails scroll. The chat is still moving — new comments arriving every few minutes, the subscribers arguing about whether the case study will survive peer review, whether the marathon data will be believed, whether Dr. Reeves is real or a character. The body is comfortable. The body is becoming content. The content is becoming permanent.

She puts the phone on the belly and opens the text thread with Diane. The yellow nails move: *Have you found a marathon?* The response comes in two minutes. The underneath voice in text: *Riverside has one in November. There's also one in Westfield the week after. Carl wants to come. Marcus wants to come.* Then a second text: *I've been walking at night. Barefoot. Seven miles. The body wants it.* Lena reads the texts twice. The hum is warm. The body is 890 pounds and the body ran 26.2 miles in under two hours and the body is teaching Diane what it knows. She types back: *Do both. Carl and Marcus can walk. We run.* Diane's three dots appear and disappear. Then: *We run.*

Lena calls Dr. Reeves Tuesday afternoon. The phone rings twice. The clinical voice is there but thinner — stretched over weeks of data that has stopped fitting inside the clinical framework. Lena asks what she plans to add to the case study after the apartment observation. There is a pause. Not the measured pause of a doctor choosing words. The pause of someone standing at the edge of something and deciding to step forward.

"Everything," Dr. Reeves says. The word is heavy and plain.

"The apartment. The theater. Marcus. The food. The bathroom. The living habits observed firsthand. The marathon. The piss on the exam room floor. The theater aisle. All of it. I'm adding forty pages. The case study will be over eighty pages now. The journal will either publish it or reject it and if they reject it I'll find one that won't."

"Come back Saturday," Lena says. The words are easy. The body is easy.

"Come back every Saturday. Watch us eat. Watch us go to the theater. Watch the apartment. Write what you see. The case study needs what you see, not what I tell you."

"Every Saturday," Dr. Reeves says. The pen taps. The fifth expression is audible in the silence between words — not hunger, not shock. Something past both. The sound of someone who has been writing about a body and has started wanting to be near the body. Not attraction. Not curiosity. Something older. The pull of the impossible toward the possible. The pull of the data toward the source.

"I'll be there," Dr. Reeves says. The call ends. The phone drops to the belly. The hum is warm and low and steady. Marcus is beside her on the couch — 530 pounds, the controller on his chest, the yellow nails resting on it. He doesn't look up. He knows the rhythm now. The body is comfortable. The body is observation. The observation is becoming routine. The routine is becoming permanent. The permanent is *more.*