On the desk was a small pile of dark blue yarn. Hague was a compulsive knitter, sometimes even knitting straight through a meeting. He claimed it helped him think, and perhaps it did—he was one of the foremost research psychologists in his field. All Veronica knew for certain was that he was patently terrible at the knitting itself, the evidence clear in the misshapen sweaters and lumpy scarves he wore daily.
A knitter? I like him already.
