Might I rise and join her? Make a life with her? Up there? Yes. Yes. As soon as I am not so pukey. And can stay awake somewhat.

But alas.

A third option I do not imagine: that night, here comes Amy, plummeting headfirst down the Spout, hitting the floor with the sound a person makes when he or she has fallen from a height it takes forty to fifty minutes to attain by ladder.

In her clenched hand: a note, to me, on a page from her Monitoring Pad, which I am handed the next morning, on the sly, in Clinic, by Carver D., Shy Suitor, VICTORIAN WEEKEND.

“Thanks, Carve,” I say.

“It is of no import to one such as I,” he says.

Dear Brian,

I’ve been waiting for you up here but no dice. I guess that would have been too much to ask. I get why you had to rat me out. I probably would have done the same. That is just how we are.

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.”