He adjusted the temperature and brushed his teeth while the water warmed and cleansed his sweaty skin and soaked his short hair until it was plastered to his skull. He spat and rinsed, then stuck the toothbrush between his teeth while he washed himself quickly and efficiently. He chewed on the plastic grip a little, bounced it up and down, up and down, got a rhythm going that served to both distract and calm him. It worked until he got to cleaning between his legs; the lather burned just enough to make him extremely aware of how well used his body was. He closed his eyes, focused on the hard plastic between his teeth.

Up, down. Up, down. Don’t think. Don’t think.

He finished up swiftly, turned off the water, and snatched a towel from the rack. Dried off, stepped out of the tub. Stuck his toothbrush into one of the complimentary plastic cups, put on underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt.

Grabbed his shaving kit; shaved. Everything was done calmly, methodically, with great care and diligence. He needed the time to get a handle on his situation, work it through without thinking too loud, because there might just be something listening in. When he was done both with his morning rituals and the underlying data processing, he slowly lifted his head and finally met his own gaze in the mirror.

His eyes looked back at him solemnly, slate gray in the harsh, artificial light, nothing unusual about them. No marks on his face. His throat didn’t feel raw anymore. He looked normal; you couldn’t even tell he was spooked.

He stared at his reflection for a few minutes, trying to see if anything had changed, wondering whether he’d gone off the deep end. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel insane, but he figured most crazy people didn’t or there’d be more of them checking themselves into proper care facilities. There was a watchfulness in him now that he didn’t think was entirely his own, a tension that was seated at the base of his skull instead of his belly. A tickling, barely noticeable scritch-scritching against his collarbones and hips. He tried to wait it out, but it soon became clear nothing was going to happen until he did or said something to get the ball rolling. Well, if he was wrong, the worst thing that could happen was that he’d make a fool out of

himself where nobody could see. Riley could deal with that, so he leaned forward a little and cleared his throat.

“I know you’re there,” he said.

No response.

“I know you’re there,” Riley repeated. “I can feel you. Listen, I just want to talk to you. I won’t freak. I just wanna talk.”

No response, but the watchfulness slowly shifted into a vague feeling of indecisiveness that was at once promising and disconcerting.

“Come on,” Riley coaxed quietly, trying to project a non-judgmental attitude. “Show yourself.”