Friday morning arrived like an unanticipated plot twist in the else predictable narrative of Arthur Bellweather’s week. He awoke with a launch, not because of the alarm, which sat faithfully blinking on the nightstand, but because he realized he'd actually slept through his dreams without interruption, a rare and suspicious circumstance. The alarm timepiece ticked steadily, unimpressed, as if noting that he'd eventually admired the meter it had so strictly executed. “ Good morning, ” it said. Arthur moaned, stretching with deliberate care. “ Why do you always sound like a judge? ” “ Observation does n't carry judgment, ” the alarm