I looked back up at the overseer, who had noticed the holdup. Second-Floor workers had been sent Downstairs for less. He would be on Slips soon.

I did something then that I was sure I would regret, but it turned out to be the best decision I ever made as Peyote Trip. I left my post and pushed myself in front of Slips, who stepped backward without saying a word. I heard murmurs of confusion from the workers next to me and the unmistakable tap-tap-tap of the overseer’s steel-toed boots. I hunched down in front of Slips’s monumental weight, took the bread knife from his fist, and did what had to be done, before hitting the buzzer to send the woman down the belt to me.

“Snap out of it,” I hissed as I sidestepped toward my position and readied my pliers. “Incoming.”

Slippery Pete shook his head and stepped back up to his post. He didn’t blink once before plunging the knife into the next in line.

That night, after they turned out the lights and we fell, bone-and-innards weary, onto our regulation mattresses, Slippery Pete spoke to me for the first time.

“Why did you do that?”

I was already almost asleep.

“You were going to get busted,” I said.

“Yeah, but why did you do it? You could’ve gotten busted too for stepping off the line.”

I sighed. I didn’t know why I did it, honestly. Except that for some reason I couldn’t not.

“I suppose I didn’t want to roll the dice with a new bunkmate,” I said.

Slips was quiet for long enough that I thought we were done. I closed my eyes again.

“She looked just like my daughter.”

I exhaled. “Fuck.”

I found myself jealous that he could still remember anyone’s face. But on the other hand, it was proof that forgetting could be a blessing.

“So you remember her?” I asked. “Your daughter?”

Slips took his time answering, a habit I learned during our time together was not about disdain but rather about the sheer effort of thinking, a skill he had lost the use for long before.

“I remember enough,” he said finally.

“How? I’m forgetting by the minute.”

I heard Slips shifting on his mattress. He lowered his voice even though we were alone.

“I have a list of facts, memories. The really simple ones. And that list is the one thing I think about.”

“I’m doing that too. But it’s slipping anyway.”

“I mean, it’s the only thing I think about. The absolute only thing. When I’m on the line, when I’m eating, when I’m lying here. The list. That’s it. Nothing else.”