Saturday squints and starts counting beats. "You count the right hand side, I'll count the left?"

There is a pattern, or she should say a kind of patterned randomness that she recognized. Not exactly a beat you can dance to, but a kind of telegraphing intake of breath into the vent before it belches the ram out.

"Might make it. Wonder if I could ride the ram to cut down the flypaper, though."