Guess what? The Spout does not lead to Above. All that’s up here? A mass grave in a cave. Tom and Rolph and Gwen are here. I could reach out and touch Gwen. There, just did. Going a little bonkers in this small space in which I find myself sitting, between her and the long drop. Checking around, have located your mom, my dad. Your dad, my mom must be further in, as they died earlier?

It has sometimes in the past occurred to me that Above might not even be real. But as I write, light of an entirely new type pours in through dozens of tiny cracks in the plug.

So, Above is real, but it is not meant for us.

Everything feels broken in my head. Do you have any idea how many times I blew my whistle? On how many people? I have been sitting here trying to come up with a number. Why was I doing all that?

Sweetie, no one is coming. To see how good we have done/are doing. It is just us. Forever. Until a flood gets us or the air or food stops coming. What a joke, the way we live. The worry, the suspicion, the stress, the meanness. I keep dreaming that these dead are telling me what they would do if they could come back. What nobody has said so far: Rat out more folks and kick harder when asked.

Am I, like, a murderer? Are you? I think so, yes, wow.

Well, no life for me. Not up here, not down there.

So.

Don’t mind dying but can’t bear the thought of you helping, which, us being us, you pretty much would have to, I guess.

Hey, wow, look, I’m saving you again.

XO

A.

For Lunch, Shirley and Kiko send in steak, pudding, four Kit Kats, a milkshake. Plus a note: “Sorry re Amy. For the best, though painful. BTW: we feel you would make a fine Monitor. Appealing, we hope? Otherwise your outlook is grim. To be frank.”

“Yes, please,” I write at the bottom, and eat heartily, then send the note back on my cleaned plate.

But I will not become a Monitor.

Every day starts out as a certain day, dear reader, which, when it begins, we call today. Hence, every day, as we wake to a new today, we must assume that today may be the day. For what, though? That is what is unknown, that is what I must find out, and quickly now: for what will each of my coming todays henceforth be for?

I have Amy’s letter, Rolph’s letter. I have these notes I have written to you, dear reader.