Our loss of sense of purpose resulted in eight deaths across our eleven sister workhouses and the destruction of many of the cool things bequeathed to us by previous generations. One evening, that earlier described Remorseful Demon was sent tumbling down the Cliff of Unceasing Desire, emitting a sad, random Remorse-groan with each slam until, finally, boinking a Ventilation Unit, it fell silent. And lay looking up with its sad Demonic eyes at those of us who had just rolled it down there, as if to say, “Colleagues, enough, fetch me forth from this foul ravine, let us begin anew. We must believe in something, mustn’t we?”

Soon, as a community, we answered: Yes. Yes, we must. Believing in nothing, we are simply going nuts! Eight dead, forty wounded? Our three main Vending Stations split open and afloat in the Central Fire Pool, the Tram derailed so that, when going on Break, we had to walk darkened tracks to the Room, plus, what fun was Break when one had accrued absolutely zero Role Hours?

Hence Law 6.

And things got better.

And still are.

Always, I have wondered (we have all wondered, or have tried our best to wonder): When will Visitors come? Any day now. On a certain day. Which, when it begins, will be called, by us, at that time, today. Hence, every day, as we wake to a new today, we must assume that today may be the day! And when Visitors do come, what do we hope to do? Wow them. Perhaps blow their minds. With how good we are. In our case, the case of maws, how scary. How sad it would be if, after all this waiting, when our Visitors did come, we were to stink! And they were like: It was sure hard, climbing down that long Egress Spout via that slippery chrome ladder, and now, neither scared nor wowed, we must wearily climb back up it?

But it now appears that that certain day, that longed-for today, will never come.

With a start I note I am standing at the head or foot of Gwen’s silver bag.

Head.

In there somewhere is whatever is left of her goofy crooked smile.

And in a sad flash it hits me: if Visitors are never coming, Gwen, Rolph, and Tom died for naught.

Not to mention Lester “Dash” Cobb, of Food Services, who, for a hobby, maintained a database of all of our birthdays, until last Christmas Eve, when, drunk, he perpetuated the dearth-of-Visitors fallacy aloud and paid the ultimate price, and never thereafter shyly handed over a crude homemade birthday card again. Or Betty Loomis, Blood-Stirring Mistress, whose role was to stand waist-deep and keening in the Pool of Guilty Blood, who, last year, took to sitting depressed on the shore, not keening even a bit, muttering things she ought not, and who, as she was encircled, blessed and forgave us all in advance.

And others, so many others.