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accomplished something. He is just not sure what. He knows Ingrid is staring. Her eyes direct columns of strange energy that settle in his skin, making it itch. Now, more than ever, he wishes he could understand the sound of her thoughts. The compulsion that led them to this point. The emergence of a new order.
    “You seem distressed,” she says. “Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
    Each new question removes more of Rollo’s subjectivity. He is not permitted to respond in the manner he would like. A thought passes through many filters before it emerges as something communicated. Each filter works to remove venom. Spite. Responsibility. Rollo’s filters remove so much there is nothing left to communicate.
    “I am fine. Just hungry. When do we start?”
    Ingrid approaches Rollo. Arm outstretched. Fingers bent slightly at each joint. She presses the back of her hand into his forehead. Ingrid’s touch. Her flesh merging briefly with his. This tactile interaction does not comprehend itself. The two have not touched one another for longer than can be measured. This absence of touch extends beyond time. The chill of her hand sinks into the sweating heat of his brow. Ingrid reads his heat, searching for signs of illness. Degradation of physical condition could compromise what they have agreed to do.
    “I think you should go to bed early,” she says. “I want you to start collecting materials tomorrow. If you are not feeling as well as you could, focus may elude you.”
    She places a hand on either shoulder and guides him to his feet. He finds he is allowing her to lead him toward his bed. Myriad mental voices form a chorus, repeating the thought: this is not what I want . The voices are ignored in favor of whatever force compels his acquiescence. Gentle pressure is applied to either shoulder. Ingrid communicating through her hands. Encouraging him to sit on the bed. Then to lie down. The touch of another is new to Rollo. It casts a hypnotic fog he struggles to see beyond. Her hands are removed. The current connecting him and her is severed, but the residual touch remains, ensuring continued pliancy. Ingrid’s confident hands pick up a blanket and drape it over Rollo’s pathetic form. Ensconcing him. Capturing the hypnotism, forcing it to remain active. This is not what I want. This is not what I want. This is not what I want. This is not what I want.
    “I’m going to make sure you have food waiting for you when you wake.”
    Rollo’s eyes are fixed ahead. Ingrid produces curious sounds beyond his line of sight. These are sounds that provoke something beyond what is remembered. Something a pre-fort version of him might have experienced. There is a thought, residing in theoretical realms, that Rollo once had parents. He must have been born to someone. The sounds Ingrid continues to produce are of a type one might associate with the notion of parents. Perhaps there was a point in Rollo’s life where he lay frozen, similar to now. Where someone he might have called a mother or father made these sounds when he should have been asleep.
    Rollo is going to be a parent.
    The thought now feeds on this moment in time. He is experiencing something that the child… his child might experience. Bricolage music played on domesticity. Ingrid is rehearsing. Readying herself for her debut as a mother. Training innate functions pertaining to parenthood. Developing the fledgling form of new patterns. Patterns beyond Rollo. Patterns beyond the fort. He longs to learn these patterns alongside Ingrid. If a new pattern emerges beyond his understanding, he will fall behind. Loss and risk combine their dark strength and run circles around his mind. Distorting the moment and directing Rollo’s body to shut down and introduce itself to the world of sleep.
    His last waking thoughts take a merciful detour from Ingrid and the baby and visit the readings in the Cerebellum Chamber. There will be no readings tonight. The atmospheric