Finn Walsh leaned against the gate’s right pillar with the boneless structural integrity of a person held together by apathy and invisible filament rather than conventional skeletal tissue.

His warm brown hair fell across half his face, his brown eyes carried the permanent suggestion that he was two minutes from falling asleep, and his outfit consisted of a loose grey t-shirt, joggers, and shoes selected for comfort rather than any coherent aesthetic principle.

Invisible threads drifted between his fingers in geometric patterns that his hands produced on autopilot while the rest of him committed fully to existing as little as possible.

"Nah man, that’s cool, that’s cool." Finn’s voice arrived at the pace of continental drift. "Good morning. Or whatever."

"It’s eight twenty."

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