Waiting for his simulation of the cortex to run he uses the espresso machine Karen has set up (above it is the sign I’LL SLEEP WHEN I’M DEAD). Kierk sips his espresso and gazes out at the city from the tenth floor. The bright specks of people cross streets. Cars wait for them under the gathering clouds, points of clothes and handbags and faces mill about—like a great mill we walk around inside of, machines and pistons move, causality and information are transferred, and does anything arise?

The simulation run is at ten percent. He sighs and leaves, making his way through the windowless corridors. As he walks Kierk notices that the air pressure differentials in this building are very weird. There are vents in almost every room but in some corridors the temperature will be drastically different; goose bumps will form on his skin as he enters and he’ll rub at his uncovered arms, while in others he will break into a near flash sweat or lean against the wall and bask like a salamander until someone walks by and he will pretend to check his phone. But the most strange thing about it is that, due to the pressure differentials, often doors will not close all the way but remain propped an inch or two open such that through them will come a strange howl of air, a constant moan whose prosody depends on the temperatures and airflows, which in turn depend on the guts of pipes that wind their way across ceilings and up stairwells, rumbling hot and then rumbling cold in a series of differences making differences, which in turn determines which of the doors at any given time are closed, or are hovering an inch or two off their frames, and how mellow or anguished the wind’s moan is.

He follows a stairwell upward, exploring until he finds a door that leads to the roof. Ignoring the NO—XIT sign with the flaked away E he opens the unlocked door, propping it ajar with a brick lying nearby.