One read of the thing you're too close to. A manuscript. A person. A deal. A room. You get back the motives moving under it, the contradictions doing the real work, the pressure that decides the ending, and the move that follows.
Notes only. No scores, no praise I don't mean, no invented detail. Three to five cuts, each one anchored to a line that's actually there.
You're close enough to the thing that you can't see it. You want what's actually moving under the surface before you publish, commit, or sign. Or you're a writer who wants to know whether the person you put on the page is a person or a wish.
Sample. The Monkey's Paw, W. W. Jacobs. No living draft exposed.
Told to burn it, he reaches into the fire for it. Asked what he wants: “I've got all I want.” Then wishes for two hundred pounds. The money arrives as compensation for his son. His first words: “How much?” A faint smile. The paw granted nothing. It only gave permission.
Mrs. White mocked it at breakfast; at midnight: “We had the first wish granted; why not the second?” Grief converting to leverage. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?” The father, who knew the body only by clothing, complies, then erases. The third wish, the only one taken at full seriousness.
Room as motive map: fire, knitting, chess. Dread that never leaves the furniture, because the subject is a household budget: one sum from comfort, and the figure where this family stops being decent.
I say no when the subject isn't one I can read honestly. That's the point of one slot.