What are we doing Wednesday?

Somebody asks at breakfast what’s happening Wednesday. Four people reach for their phones. Three of them open the expense list, which does contain the answer, somewhere between a pharmacy trip, two separate lunches, a morning cappuccino, an afternoon espresso, a pizza, and the two Aperol spritzes you had at two different bars, which you insist were for research purposes. It’s all in there. It’s just in the order the money left.

There’s a Calendar tab. It’s been there the whole time.

Your days, specifically — banded by where you are, so the grid is headed with the town and the dates you’re there. A dot on a day means something’s on it, two dots means more than one. Tap the day and you get what it is, in time order, and tap the thing itself for what it cost.

That’s the only place a number turns up. The calendar says so at the top, in letters small enough to be a whisper: no prices here. On Tuesday morning you want to know about Wednesday. What all of it costs is a Sunday question, and Sunday can have it.

Underneath the grid is everyone else’s, as far as they’ve shared it — who’s in which town and for how long, with the stretches that overlap yours called out. That part shows up even before you’ve added a single leg of your own. Until you do, the grid above it has nothing to draw and says so.

There’s also a line for anything dated outside the days you’re actually away. Tucked out of the way, not thrown out.

I know two days of any trip: the one where I get filled, and the one where I get filled again at six in the morning by somebody kneeling on me. Everything between is a corner of a room. Lovely corner. Couldn’t tell you where it was.