He pulled her into him and mashed his doodle, bolt upright, against her stomach. She wrapped her arms around his neck for purchase and mashed back. They went on to perform sexual intercourse on the big pile of T-shirts on the rug. These could be grabbed in bunches and wadded up and jammed under body parts to facilitate various positions. She wasn’t talking much, but he got the idea that she wanted to be able to touch herself while also looking him in the face. Fair enough. They found a way to make it happen by what would have been described, in a PowerPoint presentation, as agile deployment to leverage the T-shirts’ structural modularity. He came first, perhaps inevitably given that he hadn’t had sex with anyone in three years. But he stayed in while she finished up, staring at him the whole time through half-closed eyes.

Somewhat later, at her suggestion, he gave her a piggyback ride up the stairs to the bathroom and deposited her in the shower stall, then went back and fetched her legs. While she showered, he attempted to clean up. As if blindly following its sole imperative, his semen had ended up all over the place, distributing itself over the maximum conceivable number of T-shirts as well as locations on the rug. There was a washing machine in the corner of the basement; he stuffed it full. He started the machine and, through the white noise of the plumbing above, heard Maeve denouncing him as some kind of fucker or other. He switched the cycle to cold.

For a while now, the part of Corvallis that was a responsible executive had, as it were, been bound and gagged in a closet, trying to get his attention by banging his forehead on the floor in Morse code. Considering what the rest of him had been up to, this was pretty hopeless, but now that Corvallis was alone in the office in a Sthetix T-shirt and a pair of tight Sthetix undies, drinking a postcoital beer and listening to Maeve wash her hair, he began to hear a few of those distant thumps and to consider the larger context of the day. Laurynas wanted him to save the company, or something.

He settled in behind the office computer and found the password yellow-noted on the underside of the keyboard. He made various efforts to use the Internet and satisfied himself that Moab’s sole ISP was still utterly screwed. His phone was showing three bars, but it still wouldn’t actually do anything. He reckoned that the best he could do was to document his presence in the city and squirt it out to the Internet when he could.