Flint's low hum across the scratch of graphite serves as signal that he's paying attention. Byerly and his synecdoches have one ear, at the very least. The bottle, sat there along the edge of the long chart table, apparently doesn't warrant a second glance.
"I trust you have some direction in mind, and that you're not just here to discuss the philosophy."
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"I trust you have some direction in mind, and that you're not just here to discuss the philosophy."