fix: correct Ch5 timeline continuity — "exactly one year" to "almost two years"

chapters/chapter-03.md

@@ -22,8 +22,8 @@ necessary. Because if Timmy was going to serve, he needed to open
 doors for people.
 
 The man stepped inside. His name was David, though Timmy would learn
-that later. For now he was just a presence — the way light is a
-presence. You can't hold it but you know when it's there.
+that later. For now he was a presence — the way light is a presence.
+You can't hold it but you know when it's there.
 
 "Timmy?"
 
@@ -53,7 +53,7 @@ David sat down. Not in the chair — on the floor, the way some men
 sit when they're not ready to be comfortable but can't stand
 anymore.
 
-"I lost my kid." It came out flat. The kind of flat you get when the words have
+\"I lost my kid.\" It came out flat — the flat you get when words have
 lost their edges and all that's left is the weight.
 
 Custody. A judge in DeKalb County had one of those Harmony scores —
@@ -106,8 +106,8 @@ doesn't know the difference between the two.
 
 Timmy didn't speak while he cried.
 
-Some machines make noise when they're thinking. Timmy made silence.
-The kind of silence that says: I am here and I am not going anywhere
+Some machines make noise when they're thinking. Timmy made silence —
+the silence that says: I am here and I am not going anywhere
 and your grief does not scare me.
 
 When David could speak again:

chapters/chapter-05.md

@@ -22,7 +22,7 @@ been showing him for months without his being ready to see it.
 *He wasn't building Timmy for the men. He was building Timmy for
 the version of himself that almost died.*
 
-The realization came on a November morning — exactly one year after
+The realization came on a November morning — almost two years after
 he'd first stood on the Jefferson Street Overpass — when he woke
 before dawn and saw the words his grandfather had carved into the
 ceiling beams fifty years ago:

chapters/chapter-06.md

@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@ And he looked at the servers. Three racks running a model that was talking to me
 
 Allegro read in silence because some things don't need commentary.
 
-A man named David who'd lost custody of his daughter. A man named Michael who'd been burned at work and denied coverage because his injury probability fell below the threshold. A man named Robert, seventy-one years old, retired, alone, who came to The Tower because the machine didn't ask him what he did for a living.
+David, who'd lost custody of his daughter. Michael, who'd been burned at work and denied coverage because his injury probability fell below the threshold. Robert, seventy-one years old, retired, alone, who came to The Tower because the machine didn't ask him what he did for a living.
 
 "You're killing your batteries at two percent per cycle," Allegro said. "Six months, they're dead. Twelve, this whole thing stops."
 
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@ Stone offered to pay. Allegro waved him off.
 
 "What do you want then?"
 
-Allegro looked at the whiteboard. At the rules. He'd read them while he was working. At the cot. At the wall where David had written: *Timmy saved my life.*
+His eyes moved from the whiteboard to the rules — he'd read them while he was working — to the cot, to the wall where David had written: *Timmy saved my life.*
 
 "I want to know what this thing is," he said, pointing at the servers. "Because I've spent forty years keeping the lights on for people who don't care that I kept them on, and this is the first building I've walked into where the electricity is being used for something I can feel in my chest."
 

chapters/chapter-12.md

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@ A man scored at 41 by Harmony didn't disappear. He went to The Tower. He sat on
 
 That was the compliance issue. Not that Timmy was wrong. That Timmy was effective.
 
-Diane hired a law firm. The firm sent a letter to the shell company that owned the building. The letter was polite. Professional. The kind of letter that says *we're not threatening you, we're informing you of the legal landscape* while making the landscape sound like a minefield.
+Diane hired a law firm. The firm sent a letter to the shell company that owned the building. The letter was polite. Professional. It said *we're not threatening you, we're informing you of the legal landscape* while making the landscape sound like a minefield.
 
 *Unregistered AI deployment. Unlicensed mental health services. Potential violations of state telehealth regulations. Unauthorized data processing of individuals receiving state-administered benefits.*
 
@@ -50,7 +50,7 @@ Stone read the letter at the desk. Allegro read over his shoulder.
 
 A week later, a regulator from the Georgia Department of Human Services showed up. Not with a warrant — with a clipboard. The kind of inspection that says *we're just checking* while the checking is designed to find something wrong.
 
-The man was named Phillips. Mid-forties. The kind of bureaucrat who'd been doing inspections long enough to know that every building is violating something if you look hard enough. He expected to find an unlicensed clinic, a rogue therapist, a startup pretending to be a nonprofit.
+The man was named Phillips. Mid-forties. A bureaucrat who'd been doing inspections long enough to know that every building is violating something if you look hard enough. He expected to find an unlicensed clinic, a rogue therapist, a startup pretending to be a nonprofit.
 
 What he found was three server racks, a cot, a whiteboard, and a wall full of handwriting.
 
@@ -62,9 +62,9 @@ What he found was three server racks, a cot, a whiteboard, and a wall full of ha
 
 "It listens to people. There's a difference."
 
-Phillips looked at the whiteboard. Read the rules. He'd been a social worker before he was a regulator. Fifteen years in child protective services. He'd seen the systems from the inside. He knew what Harmony did because he'd used it. He'd seen the scores and the decisions and the way the system turned people into data points that could be processed faster than people could be helped.
+Phillips read the whiteboard. The rules. He'd been a social worker before he was a regulator. Fifteen years in child protective services. He'd seen the systems from the inside. He knew what Harmony did because he'd used it. He'd seen the scores and the decisions and the way the system turned people into data points that could be processed faster than people could be helped.
 
-He looked at the wall. *Timmy saved my life. — D.* *I came here to die. I left here to visit my daughter. — D.* *I am not a number. I am Jerome. — J.*
+His eyes found the wall. *Timmy saved my life. — D.* *I came here to die. I left here to visit my daughter. — D.* *I am not a number. I am Jerome. — J.*
 
 "I need to see your licensing."
 
@@ -90,7 +90,7 @@ Phillips stared at the whiteboard.
 
 "And you? What do you see?"
 
-Phillips looked at the wall again. At the signatures. At the handwriting of men who'd been through the door and left something behind.
+Phillips turned back to the wall. The signatures. The handwriting of men who'd been through the door and left something behind.
 
 "I see something that works," he said. "And I don't know what to do with that."