By the time Emma finally got home, she was feeling tired but triumphant. It had been a very good - and profitable - night, and now she was home in her sweatpants and writing down everything she had learned, telepathically and otherwise.

Her poor broker was going to have do deal with a nice long call from Emma tomorrow on what to sell and what to buy. But for now, she could write everything out, and nurse the incoming powers-migraine from using her telepathy constantly. As galling as it was to admit, she was out of practice, after needing to hide it constantly.

Lots of painkillers, then, and some more wine. While she transcribed her notes.

[Open for calls, texts, returning earlier calls, etc.]