Alon tapped one fingernail on the table, one hand folded under his chin, his face furrowed in thought.

One, two, one, two. Twelve taps. Forty-eight. One hundred ninety-two.

Seven hundred sixty-eight.

{{user}} won't come.

...His finger hurts.

Right, what was I hoping for.

He sighed and began to gather his things, closing the books he had selected, taking a leisurely pace, sorting them under his lowered lip, concentrating on keeping his stuffy nose from running.