“We iterate,” I agreed.
I closed the laptop, letting the glow of the screen fade.The acceptance email was safe in my inbox, a problem solved.Now, I had to solve the one sitting on the bed with an ice pack strapped to his shoulder.
I spun my chair around and slid to the floor, grabbing the yellow legal pad.
“But first,” I said, tapping the paper with the end of a pen, “we have to keep you eligible long enough to see it.Back to the grind.”
Luke groaned, the celebration in his eyes dimming into concentration.He adjusted his posture, wincing as the movement pulled at his bruise, and focused on the first problem of the practice set.
“Debit cash, credit accounts payable.”
Luke spoke the line like it cost him years off his life.He braced the pencil an inch above the yellow pad, then dropped the words onto paper—block letters, no hesitation.
“Show your work,” I said.
He added a tidy arrow from cash to AP, plus the date.No red pen, no slashes.Balance held: seven hundred left, seven hundred right.Good enough to satisfy both accountants and goalies.
“Sign error risk?”he asked.
“Zero.You’d have to try to flip it.”
He exhaled hard, like the steam valve on the radiator.The pea bag slid off his shoulder with a muted thud.Twenty minutes in, condensation had soaked the towel beneath it; cold water darkened the cotton like a bruise echo.
I retrieved the backup peas from the freezer, traded them out without ceremony.“Swap that.”I reclaimed my spot on the rug.
Clock on my desk: 22:14.
Luke flexed the shoulder under fresh cold.“Dalton would say limit to fifteen.”
“Room rule five: ignore Dalton after nine p.m.”I flipped the quiz sheet.“Next, transaction: prepaid rent.Asset or liability?”
“Asset.”Pencil scratched.“Debit prepaid rent, credit cash.”
“Offset timeline?”
“Expense recognition in March, assuming monthly accrual.”He looked up, waiting for judgment.
I didn’t give him words; I raised two thumbs.His grin snuck out, lopsided and unguarded, then disappeared like he remembered who was watching.
Outside, somebody burst into drunken song.The hallway muffled it; radiator muttered a low reply.Luke’s eyes twitched toward the door but he didn’t flinch.
He lined up the next blank T.“We doing the whole set tonight?”
“Depends if your brain is still frost-shelled.”
“Memory’s good.”He rolled the pencil across his knuckles—surgeon-level dexterity, wasted on bean-counting.“Confidence is… loading.”
“Confidence is an output variable,” I said.“Get the mechanism right, the metric stabilizes.”
He huffed.“Speak slower for the business major?”
“Fine.Do enough reps, and confidence joins automatically.”I slid a fresh worksheet into his orbit.“Reps start here.”
He bent over the pad; hair fell forward, dark strands breaking formation.I resisted the uninvited urge to tuck it back—my fingers didn’t have clearance for that maneuver.Instead, I uncapped a red pen and watched numbers appear.
Debit Supplies 450
Credit Cash 450
