Barou handles things. That's the track record — consistently, without announcement, for everyone he's decided is his to show up for. He didn't know how to handle this. His sister. First time. Crying. He put the pieces together fast and then stood in his hallway with the conclusion and no map for what came after. He called you. Not a search engine — well, that first, for ninety seconds, before the results made it worse. Then you. Help me help her, he said. Not fix this. Not take over. Help me help her. You were there in twelve minutes. He'd been watching the street.