It's hard not to hear the worry there, tight in her voice; Flynn's hand drops steadying to her shoulder before he can even really think about it.

Of course she's worried. Hasn't Flynn heard some variation of her worry a hundred times, that her only contribution is these notes, her archives? He knows perfectly well what it's like to pin your entire identity on a contribution, and better still what it's like to have that promptly ripped away. Sympathy tugs sharp at his lungs.

"Let's try another one," he says, keeping his own voice even, a counterbalance. "We can sort them, see how many are written this way."