A point at which she is too old, too slow, too known or too out of touch. In other words, a point at which she's no longer capable of doing the work. Around they come, back to the inescapable: as long as she can, she must. There's only a little arrogance in thinking that point is years off still, maybe decades, with luck. More years gone and opportunities with them. More sacrifices piled on the scales, demanding more accomplishments to balance against them. She is too tired by the idea to indulge in anger.

The turned-up lapel hides the heavy breath she exhales in the too-long moment after his question. She squares her shoulders, re-crosses her arms against her chest, and turns to meet Flint's eye and shake her head.

"I don't want someone at my elbow all day." And she still hasn't learned how to delegate.