strange highs and strange lows

He’s well-dressed – dark overcoat, expensive shoes with scuffed toes. The kind of shoes meant for office carpets, but he clearly walks in them, walks more than people with shoes like that usually do.

He’s maybe a little older than you, hard to tell. His posture’s quiet, composed. You wonder if he’s a lawyer or a doctor, he looks like someone used to delivering bad news in courtrooms or hospitals – places where people lie with manners.

"I worked with your aunt,” he says. “Back when she was on the force."

You glance at his outstretched hand but don’t shake it. You don’t know him. You’re not in the mood to pretend.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “We weren’t close, really.”

He nods, accepts that.

"I know."

You’re about to keep walking when he adds:

“I also know you work for Lumon.”

That stops you. A tightness catches in your throat. You turn slightly, eyes sweeping toward the cemetery gate. No one. Just headstones, crows, and the last of the light slipping behind the trees.

"How do you know that?"

He shrugs. "Your aunt and I kept in touch. Even after they took her badge."

"They didn’t take her badge. She retired."

He lets it hang. Doesn’t argue.

“I was hoping you’d have a coffee with me,” he says. “Not now. Another day. I’m in town for a little while.”

You take him in. Clean-shaven, sharp face and sharp eyes. You can’t place him. Is he with Lumon? Are they onto you? Did they find out about you and Milchick?

"Why would I?"

"I think you should. In case you ever wondered what they really do down there."

He takes a card from his coat pocket. Holds it out between two fingers. No name, no logo. Just an address and a time. Thursday, 9:30 a.m. Some café off the highway. One of those dying plazas that never quite shut down.

“I can answer some of your questions. If you answer some of mine.”

You take it without thinking. You don’t say you’ll go.

“You’ve seen more than you think,” he says. “And you’re not alone in wondering if any of it made sense.”

You study the card. When you look up, he’s already walking away. 

You don’t decide right away.

You go home. You sit with your cousin in silence. She doesn’t want to talk, and you don’t make her. You know that particular brand of grief, so you clean the dishes without asking, make sure she’s eaten, keep the house quiet. That’s the trick, really – not comforting people. Just not making it worse.

Two days later, you find yourself parked outside a grim little café with flickering fluorescent lights and too many dead bugs on the windowsill.

He’s already there, waiting with two black coffees.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, sliding one across the table.

You sit.

He doesn’t launch into anything right away. Doesn’t push. Just sips his drink and waits until the silence gets still enough for him to speak.

“I’m not here to scare you,” he says. “Or to convince you of anything you don’t want to hear.”

He starts slowly. Careful with his words. He doesn’t outright say Lumon is evil. He says it started on broken moral ground and built a fortress from there. That what they do to Innies – the erasure, the split – is just a new face on an old cruelty.

“They say they’re saving the world,” he says.  “But they’re reshaping it in their image. And people don’t see it until it’s already changed them.”

You don’t interrupt. You wait. Eventually, he leans back. Watches your face.

“Your mother ever told you about the Murray case?”

You shake your head.

He looks surprised. Not like you’re lying, more like he’s realizing how much you don’t know.

“I thought maybe she would've,” he says. “Guess not.”

He sits straight and tells you the story.

“There was this guy,” he says. “Lumon employee. Lab tech, not corporate. Started bothering people in his neighborhood. Ranting. Paranoid. One day, he disappears.”

He rubs a thumb along the rim of his cup.

“Your aunt and I went to his apartment. He was already gone, but the place… it was a wreck. Piles of junk, papers, dead insects. Felt like walking into a crazy person's brain. Not just messy. Wrong.”

You try to picture the apartment. Picture your aunt at the doorway, trying not to breathe in.

“Next day, the case disappears. Officially archived. Lumon takes over the scene. All of it, gone, sealed.”

He waits, measuring your expression.

“But she didn’t stop,” he goes on. “Ms. Anderson, she couldn’t let it go. And I didn’t want her to go alone… We followed a lead out to some farm property. Middle of nowhere. That’s where we found him.”

You don’t breathe.

“He wasn’t alone. Bunch of others living out there. Looked like a cult. All of them obsessed with Kier. Worship-level obsessed. The guy was weeks from death, dehydrated, delusional. We got him out. Or tried to. He went there on purpose. Said he was offering himself to Kier. A sacrifice.”

He stops talking.

“That was one of the worst nights of my life,” he says quietly. “I’ll spare you the rest.”

You glance down at your coffee. It’s gone cold.

“Your aunt lost her job the next day. She never said I was there. Took the fall alone. Your mom stepped in, made them go easy on her. The deal was: keep quiet. Stay out of Lumon’s way. I went federal after that. Couldn’t let it go. Took me years to piece it together.”

You try to remember the last time you saw your aunt and your mother in the same room. But you were fifteen then, and the memories blur. You remember the fight in the kitchen. Raised voices. Your mom slamming a door. You didn’t ask.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He exhales.

“Because, years later, I started seeing connections. Patterns. That guy? Murray? Turns out he’d been working in a Lumon lab with heavy chemical exposure. One of several. Every single person on that farm had a story like his. All of them former employees. All of them lost to the same machine.”

He looks at you like he’s checking your reaction.

“That wasn’t a one-off. It’s everywhere. Different names, different faces. Same rot. Someone has to stop it.”

The café is nearly empty now. Just an old couple eating toast and the hum of the soda machine.

He flips the card over, writes a name in neat, controlled print.

“Take your time to think about it, and if you want in,” he says, “she’ll know what to do with you.”

As soon as he leaves, you turn to Dylan, expecting an explanation, and he offers you just that:

“They can wake us up,” Dylan says, voice shaking slightly. “On the outside. It’s called the overtime contingency.”

Mark frowns. “What?”

Dylan explains – his house, his son, the way it all vanished before he could even process it.

“He’s not your son, Dylan,” Irving says hesitantly. “He’s your Outie’s son.”

Dylan snaps his head up. “That’s bullshit. He’s my son too.”

Your chest tightens. The panic claws its way back, you're out of breath, hands trembling. It’s too much. The walls press in, your limbs feel wrong, the world tilts – but before it can swallow you whole, Helly cuts through it:

“This is good,” Helly says.

You force yourself to focus. “How is this good?”

“If they can wake us up on the outside, what’s to stop us from doing it to ourselves?” she presses. “We can all see the outside, find out who we are.”

Irving hesitates. “Helly, forgive me, but that’s perverse. We’re Innies. Plus, the controls are surely somewhere we can’t access.”

“Like the Security Office?” Mark suggests, somehow holding up Graner’s key card.

Helly leans in. “Where did you find that?”

Mark stares at it. “It was in my pocket during the Music Dance Experience. I think I must’ve had it with me when I came in today.”

“Why does your Outie have the key card of our head of security?”

“I don’t know.”

Helly crosses her arms. “I think it’s time for a field trip.”

Dylan snorts. “To the security office where all the security guards work? Amazing. Yeah.”

“Who’s to say there are security guards?” Helly counters. “I’ve only ever seen Graner.”

“What about Milchick?” Dylan points out.

A beat passes before you speak. “He can’t be everywhere at once. And I know how to distract him.”

Dylan eyes you. “Disgusting, but sure.”

“That’s not how I meant it. Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!” Dylan fires back.

“Guys,” Mark and Helly say at the same time.

You and Dylan share a begrudging nod before moving on with the plan.

You find Milchick in Cobel’s old office, well hidden in the low light, shirtless, contorted awkwardly as he tries to clean his wound. Your guess is that he doesn’t want her to find out.

“Do you need help?” you ask, trying very hard not to stare at the broad stretch of his bare shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso. Holy shit.

He jumps, whipping around. “Excuse me? No!”

There’s something almost comically affronted in his voice, like the idea of you helping is more mortifying than the bite itself. He looks around, clearly embarrassed to be caught like this.

“Do you wanna see something funny?” you ask instead, remembering why you came here.

He exhales sharply, already rolling his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I also have a bite mark on my arm. It’s kind of faded, so I almost didn’t feel it. Let me show you.” You roll up your sleeve, revealing the faint imprint. “I wonder how that happened.”

He goes still. Gulps. Practically sweats cold. Then, as if deciding to pretend he didn’t just hear that, he turns back to his injury, still struggling. You watch him for a moment, waiting. Eventually, against his own will, he sighs and nods.

“I’ll accept your help… be careful.” He hands you the supplies.

You step closer, carefully cleaning the bite wound. Your hands move gently, focused. “You’ll get to feel this healing,” you murmur. “Do you ever think about that?”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” he asks, voice matching yours, allowing himself to be softer.

“You’ll get to walk out of this building with your memories,” you say. “Maybe you’ll have dinner with me, and you’ll think about this conversation – but I won’t. Because my brain is fucked up. You’ll lie to me about how you got this wound, and I’ll never find out.”

You finish, finally looking up at him. “I don’t think it’s about good or bad. I think it’s just not fair to me.”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow, patient. A quiet moment stretches between you, his hand warm against your skin. You don’t let yourself get lost in it. Not yet. Before he can speak, you push forward, because you have to, because it’s been sitting in your throat for too long.

“I’ll never get to see the stars,” you whisper. “That’s been making me freak out lately.”

“Amongst other things,” he says.

“Yes.” Your voice wavers. “I’ll never sleep, or drive a car, or buy a house, or adopt a cat. It’s not fair.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, and his thumb catches them, gentle, careful. He still has his hand on your face, holding you there like he’s afraid to let go.

“I’ll never get to kiss you or touch you.” Your voice cracks. You press his hand closer, closing your eyes for a moment before looking at him again, really looking at him, at his face, his bare chest. “And you’re so, so beautiful. It’s not fair.”

He kisses you.

It’s soft, almost weightless, but it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your heart is loud in your ears, and when he pulls back, you’re dizzy.

“I’m so sorry, I…” He looks terrified, already regretting it, but he doesn’t move away.

You don’t let him spiral. “I’m going back to work now. Don’t worry.”

And with that, you walk out.

You play old music, tangled up in each other, one earbud each. He listens so well it makes you reckless, you start handing over pieces of yourself like offerings: how terrible you were at soccer, the mother-shaped wound you don’t talk about with anyone else, how the years stretched too long until you stopped calling your friends altogether.

You tell him how easy it was to fold inward. How convenient grief became. How loneliness felt liberating, at first, until the edges hardened, and you couldn’t find your way back out.

And sometimes, Seth slips, too. Complains about time, about how work swallows entire days whole, how everything feels like a countdown. Then quieter, almost guilty, he tells you the truth: that his favorite part of the week is here, now, with you.

You start memorizing the way he looks when he’s soft like this. Shoulders loose. Eyes heavy-lidded, half-closed. 

You make him your therapist, your confessor, your best friend, your lover. All in one.

On these good days, his touch is always careful, as if he’s apologizing in advance. He moves slowly, like he has forever. Keeps his eyes open. Watches you, even when you try to look away. And when he finally enters you, you wrap your legs around him, not to keep him there, but just to feel the full weight of him, the shape of it, the undeniability.

It’s almost too much, the sweetness of it. The way his face looks when it’s over, forehead pressed to yours, both of you still catching your breath, neither ready to let go.

Fridays are different. You both like the excuse of the weekend. The extra days to heal. The permission to lose yourselves. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s starved. Hands in your hair, tugging until your neck bends the way he wants. His breath is rough against your ear. There’s no sweet buildup or delicate touch. He bites down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, and you arch into him, welcoming it.

On Fridays, he doesn’t treat you like a doll, something precious and hollow. He fucks you like you’re real, flesh and blood and nerve endings. Like you can take it.

And you do. You take everything he gives you.

You scratch at his back, drag your nails down his spine until he growls into your skin. You beg without meaning to. It pours out of you – please, more, don’t stop –, something primal, animalistic, raw.

By the end, you’re both shaking. Spent, wrecked, ruined. Sweat drying on your skin, teeth marks blooming red-purple across your chest. You feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

Fridays are for this. For being a little wild. For letting him tear you apart, knowing you’ve got two full days to stitch yourself back together.

But there are bad days too, and they creep in without warning. You recognize them by how he carries himself – he hardly says a word when he arrives, only gives you a look, the one that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong. Or like he’s looking for something to break, and you’re the only thing within reach. 

When he touches you, it’s fast, unrelenting. He holds you down harder, fucks you mean, leaves you aching. You don't know if he’s punishing you or himself. It doesn't matter. You take it anyway.

Afterward, he pulls away before you’ve even caught your breath, getting dressed with his back turned, already gone in his mind. He leaves you stretched thin, a hollow ache beneath your skin.

You tell yourself you don't mind. That you like it rough, that there’s something almost religious about letting yourself be emptied like that. But there are nights he doesn't look at you at all, and those hurt more than bruises.

You never ask why. You never ask him to stay.

You’ve learned not to.

Instead, you lie still and stare at the ceiling after he’s gone, tracing each sore spot with your fingers, cataloguing every place he left his mark. Proof that he was here. Proof that, for a little while, you were enough to hold his attention – even if it was only to be the thing he broke apart.

Even if you’re the one left gathering up the pieces.

Candlelight flickers across the walls of your house, reflecting off the carefully set table. A fire crackles in the fireplace, radiating warmth. It’s borderline ridiculous, but you wanted it to be special.

You doubt the two of you will ever go on a real date. Not outside, not in the way other people do. So this is what you’ve made instead.

You smooth down your dress and the door opens.

Seth steps inside, pausing as he takes it all in. His brow furrows. “Are you waiting on someone else?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No! This is for you, silly.” You let out a small, nervous laugh, but then second-guess yourself. “Oh, but if you don’t like it– ”

“I– ” He exhales, looking around again, slower this time. “I love this. All of it.”

His eyes flick to you, then away. “You look… good. You look good.”

You beam, warmth pooling in your chest. He liked it. You step forward, fingers brushing the lapels of his jacket, then you slip it from his shoulders. “You should’ve told me,” he murmurs. “I would’ve dressed more appropriately.”

You shake your head, taking his hand. “You’re perfect.”

Dinner is easy. The wine flows, you two talk about the news, the food, the weather. His fingers smooth over the rim of his glass, slow, thoughtful. Somewhere between the second and third pour, you say it.

“You literally saw the inside of my brain.”

He stills, glass halfway to his lips.

“You’re around me even when I’m not.” Your voice dips lower. “I can’t think about us for more than a minute, and I know this isn’t normal. Or healthy. But it feels good. I’m happy. Fulfilled.”

He looks toward the window. Outside, the world is frozen still, the snow falling thick and slow. You don’t know what he sees out there, what he’s thinking.

“I know there’s nothing for us out there,” you say softly. “But I want to keep being happy with you. Here.”

Seth doesn’t answer right away, he stops to think about it, considering. Then, with that same measured certainty he always carries, he reaches for his glass, lifts it slightly.

“I’d like that very much,” he says.

The glasses clink, and in the quiet warmth of your home, you drink.

“If you mean the note, that’s in the past,” he says, voice clipped but polite. “You apologized. You’ve been exemplary since then.”

The thing is, you don’t remember apologizing for the note. But he is right, since then, you’ve been too afraid to do much of anything.

“There’s something else,” you continue.

He stops fully this time. You’ve been trailing him for the last few minutes – something he never usually allows, but today, he seems distracted enough not to notice. Until now.

His eyes sharpens. “What else have you done?”

It stings, the disappointment in his tone. He’s always treated you like someone above reproach. You’ve been letting him down lately, over and over. You swallow.

“I’ve touched myself,” you say quietly.

He blinks. Shakes his head once, as if resetting. You push forward before you lose your nerve.

“In the bathroom,” you add.

Another shake of the head. He starts walking again, fast, like putting distance will fix this. You follow.

“Thinking about you.”

That stops him cold. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, a breath. He recomposes, like sliding a mask back on.

“Well.” His voice is smooth again, unnervingly even. “I’m happy to hear how deeply you regret this. And that it won’t happen again.”

Again, you never said that. But he always knows how to phrase things in ways that make disagreement impossible. You half-hope he’ll crack, raise his voice, reprimand you properly, argue, spank you. But he only places a hand gently on your shoulder, steady, professional. Not the touch you want, not the kind of touch you’re craving.

“Today is a special day,” he says. You look up, still searching for something in his expression. Anything. “You’re getting a new coworker.”

He guides you back toward MDR, conversation ending on his terms. You scramble for something to keep him talking, trying to stay in his presence for a little longer.

“You know… Petey was my best friend.”

You try to sound sad. Vulnerable. Maybe he’ll soften.

“Nonsense.” His smile is immediate, too bright. “Dylan G. is your best friend.”

He gestures to MDR, holding out his hand just long enough.

“Now,” he says, like punctuation. “Back to work, shall we?”

Helly is red.

Not just her hair – though that’s the first thing anyone notices – but her entire presence feels red. Bright and impossible to ignore. She moves like she’s always one second away from setting the whole place on fire.

At first, you have a hard time looking away from her. She’s fascinating. Beautiful, even. And so... different. Different from you and from everything you know in your entire life. It’s like someone cut a hole in the white walls of Lumon and she’s what’s on the other side. It’s been a while since you’ve had a female coworker. You think maybe there’s a chance that you’ll find a friend in her. Someone you could talk to, confide in. But it becomes clear quickly: Helly is not interested in you. Any of you. And she doesn’t hide it. You’re taking your first group picture when she says:

“I just think I’m not gonna work here anymore. Sorry.”

It’s not surprising, really. Getting initiated wasn’t easy for any of you. And with Mark S, of all people, in charge of training her it’s no wonder she’s struggling. Still, something twists in you when she says it so plainly. You feel sorry for her. You know better, though. You know how it works. The rules here don’t bend for anyone. That type of choice is not hers to make. Helly R comes back to work the next day, and the day after. Just like the rest of you.

It gets you really thinking about it, remembering what it was like waking up on that table, not being a person yet, completely empty of meaning and voice. And everything you’ve been doing since that day to fill in that hole. Looking at Helly, you realize you haven’t been doing much. There was a time you longed for meaning, but over time, like everyone else, you just stop thinking about it. You get used to it. You make it work. Learn how to live around the giant hole in your brain.

Helly gets sent to the Break Room way too soon – especially considering you’ve never been there yourself, and that Carol B was only sent a couple of times. You’d always assumed they went easier on women. But when Helly comes back, Mark asks:

“How many times?”

“1,072,” she answers.

You’re shocked but try hard not to show it. Everyone’s acting cool, normal even, and you’re terrified that if you say anything, you’ll expose yourself. You can’t shake the fear that they don’t see you as one of them. The fact that management’s never punished you only makes that gap wider.

“What are you staring at?” Helly asks. She rarely talks to you, probably because you rarely talk to her. You quickly drop your gaze, eyes looking around the room for something else to focus on.

“Milkshake’s got a crush on her, that’s why she’s never seen the Break Room,” Dylan G says to Helly.

Your stomach drops. You shake your head in horror, but Helly just looks startled, then something softer, almost pitying, as she looks at you and says:

“That’s fucked up.”

“That’s not true!” you blurt, too loud. “He doesn’t!”

“He totally does,” Dylan shrugs.

“Stop it. I’m serious!” You can feel yourself flushing, burning.

Helly just hums like she’s already lost interest, turning back to the others. “What about the voice behind the door?” she asks, and the conversation moves on without you.

But you’re still thinking about Helly’s red – her hair, her face, her anger – as you, still blushing, quietly get up and slip away. You find yourself wandering the halls, looking for Milchick.

When you finally spot him, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Please, not again,” he says immediately, exasperated. You freeze. Confused, he must see it on your face, because he tries to explain, but it sounds more like a scolding. He steps in too close, closer than he’s ever been before. If you were already blushing before, now you’re burning up when he leans in, voice low in your ear:

“Have you been touching yourself again?”

You gasp, louder than you mean to. “What? No! Why would you –? What the hell?”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice stays soft, terrifyingly calm. “I know the face you make when you’re aroused.”

It knocks the air out of you. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, but he’s not really talking about you. You know that. The realization hurts so much that you step back, lightly pushing him away.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.” You take a breath, steadying yourself. He looks like he’s about to apologize, lips parting, but you cut him off.

“I came here to ask you something,” you say, “But forget it. I don’t care anymore.”

The sheriff’s voice cuts through the room as he steps inside. Without ceremony, he tosses a file onto the table. It’s thin, too thin. Anderson had figured it was going to be a headache, call it experience, call it intuition, or maybe just the fact that the sheriff called for her specifically. But two flimsy sheets of paper catch her off guard. She furrows her brow.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“It’s a simple task,” the sheriff replies, still lingering by the door. “You go in, and then you get out.”

She flips the file open. Lumon employee missing. She knows the name well – local nuisance, bar fights, noise complaints. Always ranting, always picking fights, usually about Lumon. Defending them loudly to anyone who’d listen – or wouldn’t. A real piece of work, and gone two days now. No swipe-ins at work, last seen at a dive bar downtown. She knows how these stories end. Either he crawled into a ditch himself, or someone helped him there.

“You’re going to his apartment, take pictures of anything relevant. Then get the hell out.”

“Lumon request?” she asks, sighing. The company is known to make special requests to the precinct.

“My request.”

The sheriff finally sits opposite her, lowering his voice. “You need to be quick. They’re sending someone later today.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just a hunch. An itch. Need you to check his place, that’s all. Don’t have anything concrete.”

He raises his hands, palms up. She believes him. She's feeling that itch too. Not a lot of people you can trust in this town, but they trust each other.

“And you’re taking the new kid.”

He says it casually as they’re walking out, like an afterthought, hoping she won’t bite.

“What the fuck?” she snaps, pulling him aside.

“Listen, Anderson, I really need you to keep your shit together on this one. Take him, alright? Keep you on your toes. Can’t have you doing anything dumb.”

Later, in her car, driving to the apartment, the boy beside her is practically smiling, bright-eyed, thrilled to be out in the field. Barely out of diapers. She has to take a long breath just to steady herself, not lose it at the sheer annoyance of his existence.

The apartment’s downtown, one of those prefab towers Lumon subsidizes for the lower ranks. They take the elevator in silence, the kid waiting for her to fill it. She doesn’t.

Ms. Anderson knows exactly how to jimmy the lock without leaving marks – old-school skills, none of that sloppy forced-entry crap. She keeps a small, worn lock-pick set tucked inside her jacket pocket.

Before she starts, she gives the hallway a sweep – neighboring doors, peepholes, anyone lingering too long. But there’s nobody. 

She looks back at the rookie, who’s shifting on his feet.

“Wait out here,” she says.

“What? No way, I’m going in.”

She’s already in motion, hands steady, slipping the picks into the lock, feeling the tumblers fall into place one by one. The door gives without a sound. It’s pitch dark inside. And the air that spills out is foul, something sour, rotting. The rookie coughs sharply behind her.

“If you puke, I’ll stab you,” she says flat, not looking back.

There’s a beat.

“…Yeah, I’ll wait out here.”

She pulls a folded face mask from her pocket, hooks it over her ears. It won’t do much, but at least it filters the worst of the stench. Then she flicks on her flashlight and steps inside.

Even before the beam slices the dark, she’s registering shapes – towers, piles, slumps of fabric or plastic or paper. Her brain scrambles for half a second, parsing, blinking hard. It’s like walking into a junkyard. There’s so much… Stuff. Boxes, toys, electronics, so much paper. It feels claustrophobic. Every surface has something.

She keeps the flashlight moving, slow sweeps, edges catching on glints of metal, cracked glass, brittle paper edges curling. The moment she lets it linger too long, her peripheral vision starts filling in blanks she doesn’t want – phantom shapes, half-formed things crouched between the heaps and stacks.

Focus.

She keeps her breathing steady, lips pressed tight behind the mask. Each step calculated, watching where she moves, what she brushes past. She’s already mapping out what not to disturb, what to leave precisely as it is, so whoever Lumon sends later will have no reason to think anyone came through.

She snaps photos methodically. Every corner. Every unsettling little cluster. Dead insects arranged in careful rows across a table, pinned wings, brittle legs. Dozens of bottles of pills, all different substances, all from different labs. A few backpacks, machinery parts, countless books, magazines. The kitchen sink is overflowing with filthy dishes, fridge door hanging open, contents slick with mold.

It’s not random, the mess. She can tell. It’s hoarding, yeah, but there’s purpose to it, because nothing here comes in pairs. Every room is overcrampt with things and there’s not two of anything. She doesn’t have enough context to tell if it’s ritualistic, if the guy is an artist or a scientist or just nuts. She wants to stay longer. Wants to check the neighbors, knock a few doors, get the last time someone saw him come or go. But she can’t, not yet.

Her time’s running out.

She does one final loop, checking for a body – the smell, god, maybe he just died in here and no one noticed – but no. No corpse. Just the things he left behind.

“Alright,” she murmurs, voice low, more to herself than anyone. “Let’s get out of here.”

She steps back into the hallway, shutting the door gently behind her. The rookie startles visibly when he hears her voice, jumps like a guilty kid. She doesn’t say anything about it. Just jerks her chin down the hallway, and he falls in line, trailing after her like a little duck.

“Mom, have you seen my cleats?” you call from your bedroom, rummaging through the clutter under your bed. No answer.

You wander down the hallway, still half-calling: “Mom?”

You find her in the kitchen – phone cradled between her shoulder and ear, the long cord twined around her fingers as she talks. You hang back near the doorway, one socked foot tapping on the floor, half waiting for her to be done so you can ask about your shoes, and half trying to catch what she’s saying.

Her fingers twist the phone line tight.

“And you’re sure it was her?” she says, quiet but firm. “Okay. Yes. No – I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

She hangs up slamming the phone back into place a little louder than necessary.

You blink. “…Am I in trouble?”

Her head snaps up. “What? No, honey, that wasn’t about you.” She waves her hand, brushing off the question. Already moving on.

You narrow your eyes, hand going to your hip. “So… have you seen my cleats? I’ve got soccer practice tomorrow.”

The sheriff’s voice cuts through the room as he steps inside. Without ceremony, he tosses a file onto the table. It’s thin, too thin. Anderson had figured it was going to be a headache, call it experience, call it intuition, or maybe just the fact that the sheriff called for her specifically. But two flimsy sheets of paper catch her off guard. She furrows her brow.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“It’s a simple task,” the sheriff replies, still lingering by the door. “You go in, and then you get out.”

She flips the file open. Lumon employee missing. She knows the name well – local nuisance, bar fights, noise complaints. Always ranting, always picking fights, usually about Lumon. Defending them loudly to anyone who’d listen – or wouldn’t. A real piece of work, and gone two days now. No swipe-ins at work, last seen at a dive bar downtown. She knows how these stories end. Either he crawled into a ditch himself, or someone helped him there.

“You’re going to his apartment, take pictures of anything relevant. Then get the hell out.”

“Lumon request?” she asks, sighing. The company is known to make special requests to the precinct.

“My request.”

The sheriff finally sits opposite her, lowering his voice. “You need to be quick. They’re sending someone later today.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just a hunch. An itch. Need you to check his place, that’s all. Don’t have anything concrete.”

He raises his hands, palms up. She believes him. She's feeling that itch too. Not a lot of people you can trust in this town, but they trust each other.

“And you’re taking the new kid.”

He says it casually as they’re walking out, like an afterthought, hoping she won’t bite.

“What the fuck?” she snaps, pulling him aside.

“Listen, Anderson, I really need you to keep your shit together on this one. Take him, alright? Keep you on your toes. Can’t have you doing anything dumb.”

Later, in her car, driving to the apartment, the boy beside her is practically smiling, bright-eyed, thrilled to be out in the field. Barely out of diapers. She has to take a long breath just to steady herself, not lose it at the sheer annoyance of his existence.

The apartment’s downtown, one of those prefab towers Lumon subsidizes for the lower ranks. They take the elevator in silence, the kid waiting for her to fill it. She doesn’t.

Ms. Anderson knows exactly how to jimmy the lock without leaving marks – old-school skills, none of that sloppy forced-entry crap. She keeps a small, worn lock-pick set tucked inside her jacket pocket.

Before she starts, she gives the hallway a sweep – neighboring doors, peepholes, anyone lingering too long. But there’s nobody. 

She looks back at the rookie, who’s shifting on his feet.

“Wait out here,” she says.

“What? No way, I’m going in.”

She’s already in motion, hands steady, slipping the picks into the lock, feeling the tumblers fall into place one by one. The door gives without a sound. It’s pitch dark inside. And the air that spills out is foul, something sour, rotting. The rookie coughs sharply behind her.

“If you puke, I’ll stab you,” she says flat, not looking back.

There’s a beat.

“…Yeah, I’ll wait out here.”

She pulls a folded face mask from her pocket, hooks it over her ears. It won’t do much, but at least it filters the worst of the stench. Then she flicks on her flashlight and steps inside.

Even before the beam slices the dark, she’s registering shapes – towers, piles, slumps of fabric or plastic or paper. Her brain scrambles for half a second, parsing, blinking hard. It’s like walking into a junkyard. There’s so much… Stuff. Boxes, toys, electronics, so much paper. It feels claustrophobic. Every surface has something.

She keeps the flashlight moving, slow sweeps, edges catching on glints of metal, cracked glass, brittle paper edges curling. The moment she lets it linger too long, her peripheral vision starts filling in blanks she doesn’t want – phantom shapes, half-formed things crouched between the heaps and stacks.

Focus.

She keeps her breathing steady, lips pressed tight behind the mask. Each step calculated, watching where she moves, what she brushes past. She’s already mapping out what not to disturb, what to leave precisely as it is, so whoever Lumon sends later will have no reason to think anyone came through.

She snaps photos methodically. Every corner. Every unsettling little cluster. Dead insects arranged in careful rows across a table, pinned wings, brittle legs. Dozens of bottles of pills, all different substances, all from different labs. A few backpacks, machinery parts, countless books, magazines. The kitchen sink is overflowing with filthy dishes, fridge door hanging open, contents slick with mold.

It’s not random, the mess. She can tell. It’s hoarding, yeah, but there’s purpose to it, because nothing here comes in pairs. Every room is overcrampt with things and there’s not two of anything. She doesn’t have enough context to tell if it’s ritualistic, if the guy is an artist or a scientist or just nuts. She wants to stay longer. Wants to check the neighbors, knock a few doors, get the last time someone saw him come or go. But she can’t, not yet.

Her time’s running out.

She does one final loop, checking for a body – the smell, god, maybe he just died in here and no one noticed – but no. No corpse. Just the things he left behind.

“Alright,” she murmurs, voice low, more to herself than anyone. “Let’s get out of here.”

She steps back into the hallway, shutting the door gently behind her. The rookie startles visibly when he hears her voice, jumps like a guilty kid. She doesn’t say anything about it. Just jerks her chin down the hallway, and he falls in line, trailing after her like a little duck.

“Mom, have you seen my cleats?” you call from your bedroom, rummaging through the clutter under your bed. No answer.

You wander down the hallway, still half-calling: “Mom?”

You find her in the kitchen – phone cradled between her shoulder and ear, the long cord twined around her fingers as she talks. You hang back near the doorway, one socked foot tapping on the floor, half waiting for her to be done so you can ask about your shoes, and half trying to catch what she’s saying.

Her fingers twist the phone line tight.

“And you’re sure it was her?” she says, quiet but firm. “Okay. Yes. No – I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

She hangs up slamming the phone back into place a little louder than necessary.

You blink. “…Am I in trouble?”

Her head snaps up. “What? No, honey, that wasn’t about you.” She waves her hand, brushing off the question. Already moving on.

You narrow your eyes, hand going to your hip. “So… have you seen my cleats? I’ve got soccer practice tomorrow.”