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it's pretty easy to spot our own kind.
Even easier if they get themselves on the national news.”
    “Why eleven? It seems an odd number.”
    “Well, Zack, that's a very old question.
Everyone has their own theory. Personally, I think the Creator is
messing with us. People always have ten fingers. Twelve is almost
always a holy number. But It makes eleven of us because numerology
is a joke.”
    Zack frowned. “It? I always thought of the
Creator as a He.”
    Bridgette smacked her knee. “Right. Well, I
say the Creator is a woman.”
    He shrugged. “I guess it doesn't matter
either way. Do you really think the Creator jokes with us? Doesn't
that seem a little . . . irreverent?”
    Bridgette shrugged. “Why not? We don’t
actually know anything about the Creator. For so many worlds,
everyone thought there was a twelfth Observer in hiding. But some
worlds are much smaller than this one. It would be impossible to
avoid detection by all of us for this long.”
    “You talk as if this isn't the first
world.”
    “This is number one-four-four, Zack.”
    “And all of you are the same age?”
    “All of us.”
    Zack shook his head. “Not me, Bridgette. I
only go back five years.”
    She took his hand in hers. “Hess, it's Elza.
You're safe.”
    He retracted his hand as gently as possible.
“I'm telling the truth. Maybe the Creator needed a twelfth
Observer. Maybe I'm supposed to be a joke: a clumsy Observer who
gets caught.”
    Bridgette sighed. “If this is your first
life, then we should probably have a long talk. I'm sure you have a
ton of questions. I rented a house just ten minutes from here.” She
pulled out a set of keys.
    “I can't go now,” Zack said. “But my shift
ends at two. Does that work?”
    She smiled. “Sure thing, honey. I'll be
here.”

 
Interlude 1 – Hess / Iteration 143
    The darkness was everything. Hess lay as if dead,
listening to the heartbeat that would not cease counting eternity.
Ragged breaths sawed through his parched throat at irregular
intervals. Hunger gnawed at his middle and weakness wrapped him
like a blanket. A tenuous peace existed in those moments of
passivity. The weary emptiness was the state of least pain and he
embraced its refuge. Hess forced down the memories struggling to
rise within him. There was nothing but the darkness.
    Time passed. Whether it
passed quickly or slowly he did not know. Such concepts didn’t
exist in the darkness. There was only now , one torturous moment stretching
to infinity. Hess did not contemplate time. He did not contemplate
anything. He simply existed in the darkness.
    He existed in the darkness until the echo of
his gasping breath in the tiny space sparked a constellation of
recollections. The violence of the memories triggered a physical
response. Hess swung his fists at the darkness, striking stone
surfaces above his face and to each side. “Elza!” Some part of him
recognized the hoarse voice as his own. Another part reacted to the
sound, imagining rescuers spoke to him. “Help me! Let me out of
here! Please help me!”
    Yet another part of him
observed everything from a distance, chronicling events even though
nothing new happened, even though nothing new would ever
happen. Panic attack triggered by
perceived noise. “Elza? Can you hear me,
Elza? I’m sorry! So sorry! Please forgive me!” Fragmented thought processes. “Someone help me! Get me out of here! I will do
anything!”
    His fists, invisible in the
dark, were made of pain. He struck harder and harder at surfaces he
could not see, ratcheting the pain higher. Blood began to spatter,
raining down on his face. Hess licked the tangy liquid from his
lips, desperate for moisture. Animal
responses remain strong, instinctually seeking sources of
comfort.
    “Why?” he demanded of the darkness. That
question was everything, but no part of Hess was sure what it
referenced. Why did the others do this to him? Why would the
Creator allow his suffering to continue? Why had he