Little, old honeybees… they’re actually smart enough to engage in mathematics.

Who said that? Who told me that? When did I hear that?

I open my eyes.

I’m standing on my desk. I look around my room. I’m alone. I can still hear the buzzing, but it’s no longer an indecipherable droning. It’s familiar. Voices. People talking all at once. Voices over one another. None of it is clear. I’m trying desperately to understand what they’re saying.

I close my eyes.

I see faces. The faces of the others. Of us. It’s us. Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. I can see them close up, each face, lips and teeth, biting food, chewing, swallowing, eating. Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. Pete with his violin. Ruth conjugating French verbs. Hilbert leaning over his graph paper, pencil in hand.

Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. Hideously old. Grotesque. Repulsive to be so old. Despicable. All of us, walking together in a circle, for our own protection.

It’s completely dark outside my window. How long have I been standing here atop my desk? My feet are sore.

I bring my hand up, and with my arm fully extended, I touch the light with the tip of my index finger.

I scream, pulling it back immediately, almost falling off the desk.

The light has burned my finger. I climb back down. My feet are firmly on the floor. I hold my burnt finger with my other hand. Squeezing it. I pace back and forth. Jack must have heard my scream. He rushes into my room.

“What’s wrong, Penny? Are you okay?”

I look at him. He wants to help me. But I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth about what has happened. He might be mad at me. He might tell Shelley I was standing on my desk.

“I hurt my finger,” I say.

“Oh no. Let me see. What happened?”

“I… caught it in the door.”

He looks at the finger, sees that it’s red. Then, he looks me right in the eye.

“Does it still hurt?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It was your room door you caught it in?”

“Yes,” I lie.

He looks at me, as if he knows it’s not true. It’s the first time I’ve lied to him.

“There are no locks on my door,” I say.

“What?”

“Why can’t I lock my door?”

“Don’t you remember? We explained that. Here,” he says. “Have a seat.”

He helps me down into my desk chair.

“I only noticed today, before I hurt my finger.”

“The locks were removed as part of the renovation,” Jack says.

Light bulbs shouldn’t buzz like that. Or be so hot. Doors should have locks.

“People need privacy,” I say.

“People here need help. She doesn’t like the idea of locks. Not here.”

“Why?”

Jack glances behind him, toward the hall, then back to me.

“For many reasons, Penny,” he says irritably. “Locks can be dangerous in a place like this.”

“A place like this?”

“Where the residents have certain… struggles. Where memory is an issue.”