Questions churned in Judge's mind like a witch's cauldron bubbling with all the wrong ingredients — half a frog, a questionable toe, and absolutely no seasoning.
His mind was an alchemist's nightmare, the potion of understanding failing spectacularly due to two missing elements: the ingredient called answers and the flame called clues. Without these, his pondering fizzled out like a dud firework, leaving only the lingering smell of confusion.
He scanned through all the recordings and willed the stories he selected to be sent to Clio, and from the open theater in his mind, they all vanished — he refocused, sweeping his gaze across the room with the dramatic intensity of a playwright deciding whether to kill off a beloved character.
