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have a little santos & garcia & langdon interaction, witnessed by our pal robby
--
There are hushed voices muffled behind the door to the women's restroom on the 4th floor near the surgery center. It's a relatively quiet area of the hospital at this time of night, as most outpatient surgeries have long since been discharged, and those with complications have been admitted. The restroom itself is for patients, not staff, so when Robby passes the door and hears voices, he slows the speed of his steps, curious. Dubious.
He stills at the door. The voices continue, but they're pitched low enough that he can't discern any words. At least one woman, maybe two. And also a man, voice sporadic, short, and clipped, but decidedly there. At first Robby wonders if this isn't just an ill-advised amorous encounter in an even more inappropriately chosen location, but nothing about the voices sounds lustful. Someone does sound mad, though. And that gives him pause. Surely, he couldn't leave something that might turn into a fight in a bathroom in an unoccupied area of the hospital alone, could he?
He knocks.
"Fucking occupied," a very familiar voice shouts.
Robby would know that spitfire ire anywhere: Trinity Santos.
"I'm coming in," Robby announces.
"How about don't?" Santos is saying, as Robby pushes open the door, unhindered by her complaint.
He's not surprised to find Santos and Garcia in the bathroom, tucked up near the mirror. He is, however, surprised to find Frank Langdon there too, sitting on the counter of the bathroom between them, looking abjectly miserable.
The first thing Robby notices is that Langdon's clothes are on. It's a relief, given the location, the implications. The second thing Robby notices is the dark bruise blooming around Langdon's eye.
Anger blooms so easily in his gut. His stomach clenches and his veins go hot. Langdon looks at him, and then quickly looks away, cheeks flushing an embarrassed crimson.
"What the fuck is this?" Robby asks.
There are makeup brushes scattered around the counter. There's a compact and brush in Santos' hands.
"None of your business is what it is," Santos tells him. Her tone is a surprise, honestly. Her hackles are up, and normally that's a constant when it comes to Langdon, directed at Langdon, but now Robby's startled to have it pointed at him. Away from Langdon, perhaps even in defense of him.
Before Robby can bristle too much, Garcia speaks: "We can't find the right shade for Ken, here," she says simply. She crosses her arms and leans against the paper towel dispenser, ignoring Santos' anger and Robby's too.
Langdon's off today. He shouldn't be in the hospital at all. It's an hour past the time Santos and Garcia should have clocked out, but here they are. In an abandoned bathroom with Langdon between them, bruised and in the fucking makeup chair.
Did Langdon come in just for this? How did he get the bruise? Did someone punch him in the face? Someone must have. It's bad, dark and blue and black. Robby's mind spirals, jumping from one bad conclusion to the next, each one worse than the previous.
"Look, it's fine, I'm just going to go," Langdon says, clearly aiming to slide off the bathroom counter.
He doesn't get far. Santos stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The touch looks surprisingly gentle.
"Stop moving. You're not going anywhere, we're not done."
Langdon sighs, but he relaxes. He looks at Santos, at Garcia, at the floor. He doesn't look at Robby again.
"Try that one," Garcia says, pointing at a compact on the counter. "No, the other one," she adds, when Santos grabs the wrong one. Both of them ignore Robby completely.
He feels out of place, out of sorts.
"Who punched you?" Robby asks Langdon.
Langdon makes a noise at the back of his throat.
"It's not relevant," Santos says.
"He's here. It's relevant," Robby says.
"It's not workplace relevant," Garcia clarifies without looking at him. "He's here for makeup advice." Ruining date night, she adds under her breath. Frank winces, either at the words or at the press of Santos' makeup brush, Robby can't tell which.
Robby would bet real money that the makeup advice followed a medical assessment of Langdon's injury, either that or Robby's not training good doctors. Another glance to the counter shows him a floppy ice pack, which lends him to believe that Langdon's been assessed for any skull fractures or any other complications.
"Where did this happen?" Robby asks
"Not here," Santos says.
"Where?"
"My apartment," Langdon says, like it's a foregone conclusion. Like maybe Robby will go away if he answers.
Last Robby checked, Langdon lived in a house with his wife, two kids, and a hastily acquired dog. Last Robby checked was over a year ago, though, and it's only now just occurring to him that he might be behind on the times. Another covert glance tells him that Langdon isn't wearing his wedding ring. When had that happened? Robby tries to steer clear of the rumor mill, especially where Langdon is concerned. He doesn't want to know. Now, he wishes he had been paying slightly more attention.
"Your apartment," Robby parrots. This is somehow worse than Langdon getting slugged in a back alley, the aftermath of a drug deal gone sour.
Langdon just nods.
"You got punched in your own apartment?" Robby says, almost-sarcastic disbelief coloring his own words.
"Are you safe to go back there?" Santos asks.
It's a better question, the right question to ask, and the way the silence hangs in the air afterwards means that every person in the bathroom knows it. The correction stabs a blade of guilt through Robby's chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
Veering sharply away from that feeling, Robby tells himself that of course Langdon is safe in his own apartment. Of course there's nothing to worry about. That's not a question for someone like Frank Langdon, whose problems are of his own creation, his own doing. Robby knows that's true. He needs it to be.
Instead, Langdon just shrugs and keeps his eyes on the floor. He looks, if Robby were to put a name to it, almost scared. The sight of it leaves a bad taste in Robby's mouth.
"Wow resounding affirmation there, ER Ken," Garcia says. "So, you're going to sleep on my couch tonight."
Robby watches as Langdon glances up at her. He waits for Langdon to demure, to brush it off. To laugh, even.
He doesn't.
"You sure?" Langdon asks, instead.
"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't. We can postpone date night. And you can buy us a giftcard to make up for all of the foundation we're wasting on your pasty ass."
Robby watches as Langdon looks at Santos. She nods an affirmation.
"Done," Langdon says. "Two giftcards."
Robby feels even more out of place. A strange afterthought, not important or integral to whatever is happening here. What world is this, where Santos and Garcia are helping Langdon? And what world is this, where there's someone in Langdon's apartment he's afraid of? Is it a roommate? Or is it something else entirely? Robby wants to know more. He desperately doesn't, too.
"What are you still doing here?" Santos asks Robby.
She doesn't look at him. She's apparently decided whatever shade Garcia picked out is good enough, because her eyes are trained on Langdon like this is an operation. His bruise is almost fully covered. It's good work, Robby can't help but notice. Langdon looks better. Even the circles under his eyes look less pronounced.
Robby swallows. He doesn't like this. He has a bad feeling about all of it, but he's not sure it's the worst case scenario he thought it was when he first started running through conclusions. He's not sure that's actually better, though.
"Finish up quickly," Robby warns. "I'm dropping something off with admin. You'll be out of here by the time I'm back."
"Sir yes sir," Santos says.
Robby leaves. When he loops back, the bathroom is empty.
When Robby catches sight of Langdon on their next overlapping shift two days later, Langdon looks normal. As normal as he ever does, these days. A little washed-out, a little tired. But fine. If Robby hadn't seen him that night, if he didn't know what to look for underneath the carefully applied makeup over his eye, he'd be none the wiser.
He does know, though. And he wishes he didn't, because now he can't stop looking at Frank.
"Six weeks into the term, I assigned my rhetoric and writing students a 20-page article. It was the same length I had assigned for five years and the same length I had read without complaint as an undergraduate a decade ago. Not one student finished it.
When I asked why, a student answered honestly: It was too long, and she kept losing track of what the paper was about. This was not a remedial class: These were students who had cleared the admissions process and written essays good enough to get them here. Yet a routine academic reading assignment had defeated them.
Every generation of professors has complained that their students cannot read. The lament is usually overblown, but data have caught up to anecdote, and what I am seeing in my classroom is no longer a hunch. There is a measurable, generational collapse in sustained reading and writing, and the academy is responding to it with improvisation and exhaustion rather than the structural overhaul it requires.
In February 2024, Adam Kotsko, who teaches in the Shimer Great Books School at North Central College, wrote in Slate that students who once handled 30 pages of reading per class meeting now seem “intimidated by anything over 10 pages and seem to walk away from readings of as little as 20 pages with no real understanding.” Crucially, he added that this is “not a matter of laziness on the part of the students” but of underlying skills they were never given a chance to build.
The Chronicle of Higher Education’s 2024 investigation found the same pattern across institutions as different as the Stevens Institute of Technology and Wellesley College, where the average SAT exceeds 1400. Nicholaus Gutierrez, an assistant professor at Wellesley, told The Chronicle that the baseline for what students consider a reasonable amount of work has dropped so noticeably that he has cut his readings accordingly; a 750-word essay now strikes many students as long. At Stevens, the science and technology studies associate professor Theresa MacPhail described following the mantra of “meet your students where they are” for so long that she has begun to feel “like a cruise director organizing games of shuffleboard.”
Worse, the national data tell the same story in colder language. On the 2011 National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) writing assessment, which is the most recent comprehensive writing benchmark, only 24 percent of 12th graders reached the Proficient level, and just 3 percent reached Advanced; another 21 percent scored below Basic. The reading side of the ledger is worse, and getting worse fast: The 2024 NAEP results released in September 2025 show 12th-grade reading scores at the lowest level recorded since the assessment began in 1992. Thirty-two percent of 12th graders now score below NAEP Basic in reading, meaning that, in the assessment’s own language, they likely “cannot draw general conclusions based on concepts presented explicitly in a text.” And yet more than half of these same seniors reported being accepted to a four-year college. That last sentence is the whole problem in one line: We are admitting a cohort that cannot read at a college level and are pretending otherwise.
Why is this happening? One reason, of course, is smartphones.
I came into teaching as a skeptic of the anti-smartphone argument: I had a phone in my pocket throughout high school and college in the 2010s, and I read long books anyway. I now think I was wrong, because the neuroscience has caught up. In a 2017 paper, Adrian F. Ward and colleagues at the University of Texas at Austin’s McCombs School of Business showed that the mere presence of a participant’s smartphone — whether that be face down, powered off, untouched, or across the desk out of vision — measurably reduces available working memory and fluid intelligence on cognitive tests, with the largest effects on the most phone-dependent users. A 2022 study by Motoyasu Honma and colleagues at Japan’s Showa University used near-infrared spectroscopy to compare reading on a smartphone with reading the same passage on paper, and found that smartphone reading produced overactivity in the prefrontal cortex, suppressed sigh generation, and led to general lower comprehension scores; the authors argued that the sigh inhibition and prefrontal overload were causally linked to the comprehension decline.
So when a student tells me they “kept losing track” of a 20-page article, I have to acknowledge that they may be describing a measurable neurological condition. The neural pathways that support sustained attention are built by use, and they atrophy without it. Your body is a use-it-or-lose-it system, and the brain is no exception.
Another reason for the decline in student reading capability is increasing reliance on generative AI. In June 2025, Nataliya Kosmyna and colleagues at the MIT Media Lab released a preprint titled “Your Brain on ChatGPT.” They divided 54 participants into three groups writing SAT-style essays — one using ChatGPT, the second group using a search engine, the last group using nothing — and monitored brain activity with a 32-channel EEG. The ChatGPT group showed the lowest neural connectivity of the three, with up to 55 percent reduced connectivity compared with the brain-only group, and “consistently underperformed at neural, linguistic, and behavioral levels.” Eighty-three percent of LLM users could not quote a single line from essays they had written minutes earlier. When the LLM group was forced to write without AI in a follow-up session, their brain activity did not bounce back to baseline; the researchers coined the term “cognitive debt” for the lingering deficit.
This is the first neurophysiological evidence that early reliance on LLMs measurably alters the brain’s engagement with writing tasks, and it is consistent with what those of us in front of classrooms are watching happen in real time. When I assign analysis, I am not trying to extract a polished product; I am trying to put the student’s mind through resistance in order to make it stronger. Offloading the struggle to a chatbot does not “free students up for higher-order work.” It deprives them of building the strength to do any substantial cognitive work at all.
There is a final factor that is contributing to this decline in reading skills, and that is that the students arriving in my classroom today are the first cohort to have experienced Common Core-influenced reading instruction across the entirety of their K–12 schooling. Whatever the standards’ original intent, the on-the-ground implementation in many districts replaced sustained reading with the practice of pulling “evidence” from disconnected short passages, the same format used on the standardized tests that increasingly determine school funding. The education scholar Natalie Wexler, among others, has documented this pivot in detail: Students drilled on “finding the main idea” in two-paragraph excerpts never build the stamina or background knowledge that longform reading requires. The pandemic then added fuel to a fire that was already burning. NAEP scores for 13-year-olds dropped sharply in 2022 and have not recovered. A 2023 EdWeek survey found that 24 percent of secondary-school administrators described pandemic learning loss in English and language arts as “severe or very severe.”
In July 2025, the journalist Mary Harrington argued in The New York Times that “thinking is becoming a luxury good.” The ability to read deeply and reason at length is fragmenting along class lines as ultra-processed digital media replaces text in everyday life, much as ultra-processed food has replaced cooking. Her longer treatment of the subject in First Things makes the more provocative case that we are witnessing the end of print culture itself, and with it the end of the cognitive substrate on which modern liberal democracy was built.
I see this stratification in the classroom and on the page every week. My students from districts that protected sustained reading through small class sizes, strict phone policies, and faculty who refused to teach to the test all arrive with their attention relatively intact. My students from districts that surrendered to devices and standardized testing arrive cognitively winded. A democracy that requires a literate electorate is now training one fraction of that electorate out of literacy while marketing to the other a “deep work” lifestyle as a luxury good. The students who cannot read a 20-page article today are the voters who will not be able to read a bill, or the jurors who cannot follow a closing argument, tomorrow.
I do what I can in my own classroom to address the problems. I break 20-page articles into two halves and assign the first half with explicit analytical tasks. I require exploratory writing before formal drafts. I model (visibly, on the board) how to track an argument across pages or distinguish a source’s claim from my own analysis. I make structured peer review explicit, because the workshop format I used to take for granted now collapses into “this is good” and “maybe add more details” the moment I step back.
But I want to be plain about the limits of what an individual instructor can do, and all of these solutions have costs. Scaffolding a 20-page article into halves compromises the integrity of the argument I am asking students to engage, just as modeling note-taking in a credit-bearing rhetoric course is using a college slot to teach a middle-school skill. None of the syllabi I teach are designed to deliver this type of cognitive rehabilitation, and pretending otherwise has produced credential inflation. We cannot keep conferring degrees on students who cannot do what the degree is supposed to certify.
I’m afraid I don’t have answers. I do, however, have some questions that may point us in the right direction. If higher education is going to respond to the reading crisis as a structural problem rather than a private burden carried by composition instructors and adjuncts, it has to stop avoiding the following questions: If a majority of incoming students cannot read at a level the curriculum requires, are we admitting students we cannot serve, or offering a curriculum we cannot provide?
Why are first-year writing and reading-intensive general-education courses still the most adjunctified, lowest-paid, highest-load corner of the university, at the precise moment when their work has become the most important work the institution does? What is the responsible institutional response for AI usage: Is it a syllabus statement, or a sequencing principle that requires students to demonstrate the cognitive work themselves before AI assistance is permitted?
Why are most college classrooms still phone-permissive by default? K–12 districts from Florida to California are now banning phones bell to bell; higher education has somehow lagged behind the public schools. Universities benefit from a pipeline they did not build and refuse to repair. What would it mean for a university system to invest seriously in the reading instruction happening in the high schools that feed it, rather than treating remediation as something to be quietly outsourced to first-year composition instructors?
The thing I am no longer willing to do is pretend this is a temporary adjustment period, or that “students will adapt.” They will not adapt on their own. The conditions that produced this collapse are still in place: the phones, the algorithmic feeds, the test-prep excerpts, staffing models that load the reading-intensive work onto the most precarious faculty, and now the chatbots that finish students’ sentences before they’ve even begun to think of them. If we want literate citizens, we will have to rebuild the conditions for literacy deliberately, against the grain of every incentive currently pointed the other way. I know the academy has the will to do that. It also has the obligation."
— Tyler Jagt, 1 June 2026, "My Students Can’t Read"
The generational collapse in literacy is measurable, persistent, and likely to get worse.
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I was thinking about the whole "fandom moves on to something else" thing and it made me think about my annual picnic. Every year, I have a big picnic in early November and invite a bunch of people. I rent out a pavilion at a local lake, have people bring food that I grill for them if they want, have some games for the kids in the group, and just generally hang out.
Now, the way this goes is that I have everyone show up around 4:30pm. People show up, it's a big crowd, it's pretty warm out because the sun is still up and the mingling is great. People eat, share food, the kids run around in the trees and check out the lake, and we all just generally enjoy ourselves and catch up. Then the sun starts to go down.
People start getting under the pavilion, it starts getting a little chilly, and maybe those with really young kids start to pack up and say good-bye. This is usually when I light up the fire in the pavilion's fireplace and people will begin gathering around there. I let the grill burn down and sit down with everyone as everything gets a bit more mellow. Maybe we make s'mores or have cookies or something but this is usually were you start having more people say their good-byes and head out. That's how it goes for the next couple of hours, little dribbles of people winding up and heading on home until it's 9:30 at night and there's just a few people left in the pavilion in the woods sitting around a little fireplace quietly talking.
You know what? That's the best time at these things. Some years we'll be out there until almost midnight, just chatting quietly and staring into the coals. You learn things about people then, you hear interesting things, and you just feel closer.
So what does this have to do with fandom and moving on? Well, I see it like this. The show is still on, that's the early part of the day. Plenty of people around, lots of activity where art gets made, headcanons and meta fly fast and furious, and tons of fic gets written. Then the show ends, people are still creating but a few peel away, they have other things they have to do or just aren't interested in sticking around. Slowly but surely it goes until it's just a few people left.
That's when the interesting things really start coming out. You still have the other stuff but you start to get off the wall headcanons and wild meta, you get odd art, you get fic the person finally decided to write, and it's good. And hey, every once in a while, someone shows up late and you grab some food out of the cooler for them and warm up a burger for them over the coals while others grab a chair for them and you get them up to speed on the conversation and maybe show them some pictures from earlier in the night and they get to have some of that glow from earlier even if they missed the original.
That's fandom to me. As long as a person is still sitting around that fireplace late into the night, ready to chat, the fandom is never dead.
have a little santos & garcia & langdon interaction, witnessed by our pal robby
--
There are hushed voices muffled behind the door to the women's restroom on the 4th floor near the surgery center. It's a relatively quiet area of the hospital at this time of night, as most outpatient surgeries have long since been discharged, and those with complications have been admitted. The restroom itself is for patients, not staff, so when Robby passes the door and hears voices, he slows the speed of his steps, curious. Dubious.
He stills at the door. The voices continue, but they're pitched low enough that he can't discern any words. At least one woman, maybe two. And also a man, voice sporadic, short, and clipped, but decidedly there. At first Robby wonders if this isn't just an ill-advised amorous encounter in an even more inappropriately chosen location, but nothing about the voices sounds lustful. Someone does sound mad, though. And that gives him pause. Surely, he couldn't leave something that might turn into a fight in a bathroom in an unoccupied area of the hospital alone, could he?
He knocks.
"Fucking occupied," a very familiar voice shouts.
Robby would know that spitfire ire anywhere: Trinity Santos.
"I'm coming in," Robby announces.
"How about don't?" Santos is saying, as Robby pushes open the door, unhindered by her complaint.
He's not surprised to find Santos and Garcia in the bathroom, tucked up near the mirror. He is, however, surprised to find Frank Langdon there too, sitting on the counter of the bathroom between them, looking abjectly miserable.
The first thing Robby notices is that Langdon's clothes are on. It's a relief, given the location, the implications. The second thing Robby notices is the dark bruise blooming around Langdon's eye.
Anger blooms so easily in his gut. His stomach clenches and his veins go hot. Langdon looks at him, and then quickly looks away, cheeks flushing an embarrassed crimson.
"What the fuck is this?" Robby asks.
There are makeup brushes scattered around the counter. There's a compact and brush in Santos' hands.
"None of your business is what it is," Santos tells him. Her tone is a surprise, honestly. Her hackles are up, and normally that's a constant when it comes to Langdon, directed at Langdon, but now Robby's startled to have it pointed at him. Away from Langdon, perhaps even in defense of him.
Before Robby can bristle too much, Garcia speaks: "We can't find the right shade for Ken, here," she says simply. She crosses her arms and leans against the paper towel dispenser, ignoring Santos' anger and Robby's too.
Langdon's off today. He shouldn't be in the hospital at all. It's an hour past the time Santos and Garcia should have clocked out, but here they are. In an abandoned bathroom with Langdon between them, bruised and in the fucking makeup chair.
Did Langdon come in just for this? How did he get the bruise? Did someone punch him in the face? Someone must have. It's bad, dark and blue and black. Robby's mind spirals, jumping from one bad conclusion to the next, each one worse than the previous.
"Look, it's fine, I'm just going to go," Langdon says, clearly aiming to slide off the bathroom counter.
He doesn't get far. Santos stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The touch looks surprisingly gentle.
"Stop moving. You're not going anywhere, we're not done."
Langdon sighs, but he relaxes. He looks at Santos, at Garcia, at the floor. He doesn't look at Robby again.
"Try that one," Garcia says, pointing at a compact on the counter. "No, the other one," she adds, when Santos grabs the wrong one. Both of them ignore Robby completely.
He feels out of place, out of sorts.
"Who punched you?" Robby asks Langdon.
Langdon makes a noise at the back of his throat.
"It's not relevant," Santos says.
"He's here. It's relevant," Robby says.
"It's not workplace relevant," Garcia clarifies without looking at him. "He's here for makeup advice." Ruining date night, she adds under her breath. Frank winces, either at the words or at the press of Santos' makeup brush, Robby can't tell which.
Robby would bet real money that the makeup advice followed a medical assessment of Langdon's injury, either that or Robby's not training good doctors. Another glance to the counter shows him a floppy ice pack, which lends him to believe that Langdon's been assessed for any skull fractures or any other complications.
"Where did this happen?" Robby asks
"Not here," Santos says.
"Where?"
"My apartment," Langdon says, like it's a foregone conclusion. Like maybe Robby will go away if he answers.
Last Robby checked, Langdon lived in a house with his wife, two kids, and a hastily acquired dog. Last Robby checked was over a year ago, though, and it's only now just occurring to him that he might be behind on the times. Another covert glance tells him that Langdon isn't wearing his wedding ring. When had that happened? Robby tries to steer clear of the rumor mill, especially where Langdon is concerned. He doesn't want to know. Now, he wishes he had been paying slightly more attention.
"Your apartment," Robby parrots. This is somehow worse than Langdon getting slugged in a back alley, the aftermath of a drug deal gone sour.
Langdon just nods.
"You got punched in your own apartment?" Robby says, almost-sarcastic disbelief coloring his own words.
"Are you safe to go back there?" Santos asks.
It's a better question, the right question to ask, and the way the silence hangs in the air afterwards means that every person in the bathroom knows it. The correction stabs a blade of guilt through Robby's chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
Veering sharply away from that feeling, Robby tells himself that of course Langdon is safe in his own apartment. Of course there's nothing to worry about. That's not a question for someone like Frank Langdon, whose problems are of his own creation, his own doing. Robby knows that's true. He needs it to be.
Instead, Langdon just shrugs and keeps his eyes on the floor. He looks, if Robby were to put a name to it, almost scared. The sight of it leaves a bad taste in Robby's mouth.
"Wow resounding affirmation there, ER Ken," Garcia says. "So, you're going to sleep on my couch tonight."
Robby watches as Langdon glances up at her. He waits for Langdon to demure, to brush it off. To laugh, even.
He doesn't.
"You sure?" Langdon asks, instead.
"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't. We can postpone date night. And you can buy us a giftcard to make up for all of the foundation we're wasting on your pasty ass."
Robby watches as Langdon looks at Santos. She nods an affirmation.
"Done," Langdon says. "Two giftcards."
Robby feels even more out of place. A strange afterthought, not important or integral to whatever is happening here. What world is this, where Santos and Garcia are helping Langdon? And what world is this, where there's someone in Langdon's apartment he's afraid of? Is it a roommate? Or is it something else entirely? Robby wants to know more. He desperately doesn't, too.
"What are you still doing here?" Santos asks Robby.
She doesn't look at him. She's apparently decided whatever shade Garcia picked out is good enough, because her eyes are trained on Langdon like this is an operation. His bruise is almost fully covered. It's good work, Robby can't help but notice. Langdon looks better. Even the circles under his eyes look less pronounced.
Robby swallows. He doesn't like this. He has a bad feeling about all of it, but he's not sure it's the worst case scenario he thought it was when he first started running through conclusions. He's not sure that's actually better, though.
"Finish up quickly," Robby warns. "I'm dropping something off with admin. You'll be out of here by the time I'm back."
"Sir yes sir," Santos says.
Robby leaves. When he loops back, the bathroom is empty.
When Robby catches sight of Langdon on their next overlapping shift two days later, Langdon looks normal. As normal as he ever does, these days. A little washed-out, a little tired. But fine. If Robby hadn't seen him that night, if he didn't know what to look for underneath the carefully applied makeup over his eye, he'd be none the wiser.
He does know, though. And he wishes he didn't, because now he can't stop looking at Frank.
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I honestly think Gen-Z and younger simply does not understand how recent widespread smartphone adoption is.
I am not that old, and I didn't have a smartphone until probably late high school. For most of my life, many if not most people were not walking around with a magic internet machine in their pocket that they pulled out and used constantly for everything.
Hey, jsyk, the reason he said lol was bc nukes are very, VERY easy to read on a seismograph with basic analysis tools. If it were nukes various scientists would be shouting and showing us the data bc seismograph data is public, as is the knowledge of how to read nuclear blasts with them. He, as an academic, knows this fact and thinks it’s funny bc WE WOULD KNOW, but it doesn’t communicate well to the public who doesn’t understand this.
Okay. I was on my beloved AO3 and I saw something that made me do a double take. So, now I really want to know…
What is your AO3 user ID?
I’m an OG user 5 digits or less
Six figures baby!
I’m in the millions…
Remaining time: 5 days 13 hours
I’m so curious to see how long people have been on AO3! I know some people have been on there since beta/invite only, but I would love to see what the number is on tumblr!
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Whatttt is with the tendency of Tumblr users to seek absolution from every single person who offhandedly posts about disagreeing with something they do
I say this not unkindly, but firmly: to function as a member of a social species, you have to get comfortable with the idea that not everyone will like you
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
amandla
discoholicmusic
