"Go grab your coat. We're going for a ride. He says the stars are right tonight."

Wheatley doesn't know what that means, but what he does know is that they're off to see some estranged man out in the middle of nowhere. Supposedly, this man keeps records of everything to ever happen in this area—which sounds kind of weird, if he really thinks about it—and Thomas insists that if anyone knows anything about Wheatley around this bustling town, it'll be him.

To be completely honest, Wheatley doesn't think it's such a good idea. The whole thing seems sketchy. Going out after dark in the bloody cold to god only knows where to meet some reclusive bloke just because he's rumored to have exceptional, obsessive-compulsive organizational skills? The thought of it gives him the shivers. Then again, he's never exactly met a Dennis he could trust. Or Devin. Devin? Was it Devin? No. David? Derrick? Daniel? Was that it? That sounds right. Daniel. Or something like that.

The air is crisp and cold, and twilight spills pale purples and cobalts across the sky. Bundled up, Wheatley follows the stocky clerk out the door of the music shop. Thomas is wearing some sort of puffy parka over his plaid blazer, coupled with thick sleeves and a faux-fur trimmed hood. Wheatley rather likes his floppy brown hat. Fuzzy earflaps would do him a world of good, and might perhaps make his ears somewhat less chilled.

They amble on until the end of the block, where Thomas makes a sharp turn down a side street to the right. A small parking lot looms just ahead, encircled by a series of buildings with a dumpster or two crouched against heavy, pale brick faces. As they draw close, Wheatley spies patches of withered grass sprouting up from various cracks in the asphalt, and he notes that the painted parking lines have long since faded into a speckled, quiet grey. The traffic beyond the buildings is only a muffled drone.

This place is old, he thinks. The creeping cracks have climbed up structure after structure, parting brick and mortar with little finger-sized fissures. The various colors of this manmade landscape have shriveled into husks of their previous selves, leaving drained shades of black, brown, and red on the asphalt and empty walls. It's not at all like Back There, but Wheatley recognizes the look of decay when he sees it.

Thomas shuffles up to a well-worn truck amongst the cluster of cars in the center of the lot. Its navy blue paint looks like it's faded, too, though that might be because of the dust and mud caked along its sides.

"You know," says Thomas, on his toes and peering into the passenger's seat of his old pickup, "this might actually be a very tight fit for you. Not a lot of leg room. Didn't really think about that. Not like it's a problem for me." He glances over his shoulder, arching a wiry white eyebrow at Wheatley. "You know, you are ridiculously tall. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Well, no, not really." He bends down and looks through the window. The interior is a muted tan with various papers scattered about, and Thomas is right: the space does look a bit small. "But I do have to duck under doorframes a lot, so I sort of guessed after a while. And, you know, being a good head or two over everyone else was a rather good clue as well."

Thomas unlocks the passenger-side door and pops it open. Leaning in, he does something to the bottom of the seat, and then shoves it further backward. "Well, you can try and get in. See if you fit. If you don't, you can always hop in the back. Can't guarantee you won't fly anywhere, though."

Wheatley lowers himself into almost a crouch and shimmies inside. Tucking in his feet, he sits down and tries to adjust. He has to hunch forward at an uncomfortable angle because his head is flush with the ceiling, and the closeness of the dashboard forces him to bring his knees up since they won't fit in the floor space below.

"That looks painful," says Thomas, scratching an ear beneath his hat's right flap.

"Well, yeah, it kind of is."

"You want in the back?"

Wheatley winces as he turns his head to look at him. His neck is starting to cramp and there is a dull ache in the lower space of his back. "Exactly how far out are we going?"

"A good ways." Thomas shrugs. "I lose count of the miles, honestly. No real reason to keep track. I know my way around. It's outside of town, going west. Probably… fifteen miles? Twenty? If I had to guess."

"My primary concern is being permanently crumpled into a human ball."

"The back it is. Can you get out?" The old clerk steps back to give Wheatley some room, one hand on the door. "You're not stuck, are you? I don't think I could pull you out. My arms aren't meant for pulling much anymore."

"No, nope, I think I got it." Wheatley shifts his knees closer to his chest and then swivels them out of the truck. Ducking so as not to hit his head on the frame, he leans out and touches his trainers to the ground. "So I'm going back there?"

Thomas offers him a wrinkled hand. "Won't be very warm, but at least there's room."

Wheatley takes it, and with a gentle tug, he stumbles out of the truck. "Well," he says, "I don't like cold, but I don't much like being scrunched up, either."

"Don't blame you." Thomas takes off his hat and holds it up. "Here, you might need this. Warmer than that little thing you got. Hell, wear 'em both. December's finally here, and it's only going to get worse from here on out."

"It gets worse?" asks Wheatley, accepting the hat and pulling it over his black knit cap. Its dusty scent reminds him of the thrift shop down the street, and the residual heat sends tingles down his scalp. It's a pleasant feeling.

"Oh, that's right," says Thomas as he roams around to the other side of the truck. "You're not a native Michigander. Keep forgetting about that. You'd think I wouldn't with your accent and all. Not exactly like we're swimming in Brits around here with our salty ponds. But no, no, it definitely gets worse. The thick of it's still coming. You better hope you've got a good coat and boots if you're walking places." He opens up the driver's side door and climbs in. "Welcome to the north, where our two seasons are winter and construction."

"You're not serious, are you?" Wheatley steadies his hands on the side of the truck and attempts to lift himself into the bed. The chilled metal kisses up against his flushed palms and his jeans brush against the dusty tires. "Why does anyone even live up here?"

"Good question. I personally like to think it's because Florida is hell incarnate. Folks won't admit it, but the south cooks your brain. I've met a lot of eggbrains. They come scrambling up here to escape their hellish summers. They're worse than snowbirds, frankly." Thomas slides open the back window as he sidles across the front seat to shut the passenger-side door. "You all right back there?"

Wheatley manages to get himself in and lands onto the metal with a loud thump, his side bearing the brunt of the fall. Pain blossoms up his ribs, coupled with the shock of the cold surface beneath him. It seeps through the fabric of his jeans and stings the skin of his hands.

"Ow," he moans into the sleeve of his coat. "Ugh, I'm fine. Ow, but fine. Really, no, I'm good. I'm fine. Just in pain. But I'm fine."

An audible twist of the keys in the ignition can be heard from the cab, and then the truck comes to life. The rumble of the machine vibrates up his arms and through the soles of his trainers while the growl of the engine churns in his ears.

"All right, settle yourself in. Grab onto something. One of the sides. Not really much else to grab. There should be a toolbox back there somewhere, but it's more like to go flying off than you are." Thomas glances out the window. "That being said, I'm a decent driver. I won't be having you go flying off. So don't."

Wheatley does his best. He scoots up against the back of the cab, one arm clasped firmly onto the side of the bed. The open window is just to the side of his face; he can feel the heater working full force, unfurling warmth against his cheek, and he really wishes he were a bit less tall and ungainly so he could fit inside.

"Ready," he calls through the open gap.

"Right then," says Thomas. "Better hang on. Not like we'll be racing down the highway or anything, but still. Keep yourself braced. Just in case."

Wheatley seizes up and grips until his knuckles blanch as the truck putters out of the parking lot. It's a strange feeling, he thinks, having something move beneath him. He has experienced quite a bit in his few short months of inhabiting this body, but nothing quite like this. Despite seeing automobiles rolling down the roads past the flat, he's only ever traveled by foot. Being carted around by something else—a machine, no less—is an entirely new experience.

"This is brilliant," he murmurs into the neck of his coat.

As the vehicle makes its way down the road, Wheatley watches the different buildings as they pass by, feeling oddly delighted at the multi-colored lights and various decorations hung around windows and streetlamps. The festive displays tell each shop and home apart from the next, and he takes pleasure in seeing what colors and shapes are entwined with each theme. When they leave the town limits for the dusk-shrouded countryside, there are occasional glimpses of glittering lights among the fields and forests. A tight sensation of excitement knots in his chest when he catches flickers of blue, silver, red, or green out in the darkness. It's extraordinary. Then again, this is a whole different world than the halls of Aperture.

The memory is dusty and shoved so very far down, but there are still traces of drab, monochrome Christmases shelved somewhere in the back of his head. He thinks he was a machine then. He's pretty sure it was after they brought him online for the second time. It's when everyone was still alive, still creating and devoting themselves to lives of science. The holidays were marked only by small things; strings of lights in the employee break rooms, miniature trees on a lab desk, a basket of sweets out for the programmers. Nothing grand. Nothing flashy.

The surface is so different. It's wonderful.

While the truck rumbles along, Wheatley nuzzles into his coat collar and watches the passing forest thin out into flattened farmland. With his back pressed against the cab, one numbed hand holds onto the truck's cold side while the other is stuffed deep in his pocket to keep warm. The icy air bites at his cheeks and he can feel moisture at the corners of his squinted eyes as he struggles to see from the fierce chill, but he breathes through the fabric of his coat and savors the warm air against his nose and mouth.

"Are we close?" he calls through the cab's window. "I'm bloody freezing!"

"Almost," Thomas replies. "Not far now. Hang on a bit longer and then I'll stuff you in here and thaw you out."

The stars begin to poke through the navy sky as darkness starts to settle in. The truck's red taillights cast a gentle glow from the back of the bed, and Wheatley can see it lighting up the inky black pavement below. Before he can put his frozen hand into his coat and grab the truck's side with the other, he feels the vehicle slow without warning; his back shoves close against the metal of the cab and his head hits the window's glass pane with a thump.

Leaning out, he ignores the pain and cranes his neck over his shoulder, trying to squint through the dark. The truck's headlights illuminate an old dirt road off to the side, hidden away by clusters of unkempt grass and crops to the unknowing passerby. Thomas cuts the wheel into a sharp turn and follows it. Wheatley has to grab on with both hands; without pavement, the ground has become remarkably uneven, and with the truck beneath him, he feels every dip and rock in the terrain.

"Nearly there," says Thomas through the back window. "Just down at the end of this road. You holding up?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely," he shouts, jostled to the other side of the truck bed by a particularly deep pothole. "Having a whale of a time back here! You sure you know where you're going?"

"I'm positive. Been here far too much to forget. They're all fields, but even I can tell one good old clump of grass apart from the rest."

"I can't tell if you're joking," says Wheatley, gripping for dear life onto the side of the truck. His fingers are so cold they've gone numb, he's convinced he's going to go spinning off into the darkness if he lets go. "You are joking, aren't you?"

"Would you believe me if I wasn't?" The old man's laughter is like coarse gravel; he can barely hear it over the grinding of the tires against the earth.

At last, the truck comes to a shuddering halt. Shoving his frozen hands into his coat pockets, Wheatley sits on his haunches and takes stock of his surroundings.

It seems they've parked at a dead end that flares out into a small clearing. Waist-high grass envelops the surrounding area, though he can't see much farther beyond the radiance of the headlights. The chug of the engine is less than what it was, but Wheatley can still hear the heater purring inside the cab. Just ahead, he can make out what looks to be an old barn, or at least what might have been. He can discern boarded up windows under the harsh glow of the lights, and the entrance looks much different than an average barn—a great metal door stands sentry at its front, stark and imposing.

Thomas knocks on one of the back window panes with the back of his hand. "Come on, get yourself down. I'm sure you're a popsicle by now. You might be able to lay across the seats if I leave the door open. I doubt it's comfortable, but it might thaw you out a bit."

Swinging a leg over the side of the truck, Wheatley hops out of the bed and stumbles onto the ground. Thomas meets him by the open driver's side door. The heat radiating out sets trembles waterfalling down Wheatley's spine, and he stoops down so he can crawl along the seats on his belly. When he feels the warmth from the vents on his face, he goes limp and lets out a contented sigh.

"You'll need to stay in the truck," says Thomas from somewhere behind him. The hum of the heater is thick in Wheatley's ears, and he has to focus to parse one word from the next. "At least until I can get him outside. He'll need to see you first. He's very cautious."

"Why's that?" he asks, raising his hands to the vents. Either he's too cold or the air is too hot or maybe it's a bit of both, but the heat nearly burns.

"Well, to put it one way, he sees things differently than the rest of us. In reality it's a lot more complex than that, but that's the simpler explanation. He's paranoid for a reason. He just wants to make sure we're real and not a part of the distortion."

Wheatley flexes his fingers. Sensations are slowly soaking back in from the numbness. "So exactly how's that going to work?"

"With me, he normally asks me questions. I have to give him specific answers. Usually ones we agreed upon a long while ago. He's in and out of lucidity, so he waits to make sure I don't disappear. Or something like that. I don't really know. He's got some sort of routine. I just go along with it."

"What kind of questions is he going to ask me?" Wheatley rubs his hands against his face and revels in the burning warmth.

"Not sure," says Thomas. "I don't really know what he plans to do. He keeps that kind of thing to himself. He just said he'd talk to you and see if you were in his records somewhere. That's all." Thomas starts moving away from the truck. "I'll be right back. It might take a few minutes, so just sit tight."

Wheatley shimmies up so he's sitting in the passenger's seat again, but at a more awkward angle and with his legs across the length of the cab. He watches Thomas shuffle around the truck and into the beams of the headlights, making his way up to the face of the old barn. The sound of the heater drowns out the old man's knocks, but Wheatley can imagine his fist striking against iced iron.

True to his word, it's a couple minutes until anything interesting happens. The great door swings open, and then a scraggly looking man emerges from the dark. He holds his hand over his face, blocking himself from the blinding light, and from Wheatley's position, it looks like he's gesturing for Thomas to come inside. The old clerk points to Wheatley in the truck, and the scraggly man straightens his spine as his gaze follows Thomas's hand.

A few moments pass by before Thomas mouths something at him from the barn door entrance.

Wheatley pops the door open and sticks his head out. "What was that? I can't hear you. This thing's bloody loud!"

"Come on," says Thomas, waving him over. "And turn that off, would you? Just turn the keys and pull 'em out."

After a bit of a struggle, Wheatley manages to turn off the truck, get the keys out of the ignition, and stuff them into one of his pockets. He makes both doors are shut and secure before jogging over to where the two men are standing. When he approaches, he notices the scraggly man is dressed in ripped jeans and what looks like an old lab coat. He's whispering under his breath, one hand toying absently with a pen. His face is full with a black wiry beard, and his hair is bushy and wild, swirling about in the chilled wind.

"Doug," says Thomas, "this is Wheatley. He's the one I told you about."

"Hello!" Wheatley offers his right hand in greeting with an awkward grin. The scraggly man hesitates a moment or two, but accepts the shake. His hands are quite cold, Wheatley notes, and almost skeletal-thin. "Pleasure to meet you, mate. Heard a bit about you already. Kind of a weird setup you've got out here, if I'm honest. Out in the middle of nowhere. Not exactly prime location. Though honestly I thought your name was something else. I don't remember it being Doug. Was it Doug? Or maybe it wasn't. I don't really know. My memory's been hazy lately. Just something seems a bit off, that's all."

"No, no, you're remembering right," says Thomas. "I told you it was Daniel before."

"Oh." Wheatley tucks his hands back into his coat, brow furrowed. "Well, what for? Sort of defeats the purpose of getting to know people, doesn't it? I mean, if you're telling people different names all the time, it's sort of confusing. Not really the best way to go about meeting everybody. Not that there's going to be any huge gatherings out here or anything. Out in the middle of bloody nowhere. But you know what I mean. You understand."

Doug turns back to the barn, wrapping his lab coat close. "It's cold," he mutters. "Come inside."

Without another word, Doug disappears into the depths of the building. Wheatley looks to Thomas for some kind of answer, but he's met with a shrug. The old clerk moves past and enters the barn, and Wheatley follows along close behind. He takes care to close the door behind them, and when it latches shut, he notices just how many locks are lined up on the inner side of the doorjamb: chain locks, padlocks, deadbolts. An impressive array, to be sure.

The inside of the barn is cozy, but cluttered. There are countless papers tacked to the walls. There are books, notepads, easels, brushes, chalk, buckets of paint; the tables tucked into the corners are weighed down with folders and files. There is a small white radio at one of them, hooked up to an electrical outlet on the ceiling by a rope of bright orange extension cord. Its crackle is faint, but Wheatley thinks he can hear a song beneath the static. The only warmth comes from a sizeable kerosene heater in a clearing at the center of the room. The faint scent of its fuel still lingers in the damp air, a sharp and caustic smell.

"Excuse the mess," says Doug. He wades through the clutter, favoring his right leg with a limp, and he kicks aside a stack of papers. A pair of old wooden chairs is revealed underneath. "I don't normally have visitors. Here, have a seat."

Wheatley lowers himself into the offered chair and tugs off his two hats. The room is rather dark, but a couple of lamps hug the file-strewn tables, each with their own extension cord rolling up and into the ceiling. A rickety ladder to the side leads up the loft above; he doesn't see any sort of sleeping space on the ground floor, so he supposes that is where Doug goes to recharge.

"Nah, it's not a problem. We're not that picky." Thomas sits down next to him. "We're the ones barging in on you, after all. We're just thankful you've got the heat on."

Doug manages a smile and pulls up another chair by its back. He collects a nearby notepad among another stack of papers before joining them.

"So exactly how long have you been out here?" asks Wheatley, eyeing the great collection of… well, everything.

"A while," says Doug, running a bony hand down his face. His complexion is pale, gaunt, saturnine; an old ghost in a hollowed husk. "It feels longer than it has been, I think. I'd rather not give specifics, but I've been here for a number of years."

"Really? Out here? In this place?" Wheatley wrinkles his nose. "Wouldn't you rather be… well, near other people? Near town? Civilization? Not that you're not civilized. That's not what I meant. It's just—well, this rather secluded as far as living spaces go, if I'm not mistaken. Must be lonely out here. All by yourself. You and your… um, papers. Lamps. Books. All this."

Doug shrugs his shoulders. "It's not that bad. Just something I got used to. It doesn't feel like I'm alone. Though I guess I have other things to thank for that."

Wheatley supposes he means the paranoia that Thomas mentioned, but he can't be sure. He opens his mouth to comment, but a pointed look from the old clerk makes him think better of it, and so he bites his lip and laces his fingers together instead.

"So, I suppose we should talk about why you're out here. Tom told me you lost your memory." Doug's voice is a delicate murmur and the flickering light from the kerosene heater paints shadows across the sides of his face. "I'm sorry for that," he says. "I really am. I can't imagine what kind of pain that's caused you. I don't have much experience with memory loss, but I'm sure it's difficult. Maladies of the mind usually are."

Doug scribbles something on his notepad, the black pen swirling and sketching about the page. His hands struggle to stay still, Wheatley notes; there is a tremor in them that worsens when they stop drawing. He's not sure if it's anxiousness, paranoia, or a product of both.

"I've heard that sometimes people wish they could lose their memories," says Doug. "For some, it's said the pain of remembering is greater than the pain of forgetting. They don't think they're strong enough to remember both the good and the bad, because for them, the bad outweighs everything else. It brings them down. An anchor in their lives. So they forget. And sometimes, it's not by choice."

His hand pauses, ending its pathing with a flick. The other threads through his wild nest of black hair and scratches at his scalp.

"Keeping that in mind… I want to ask you something before we go any further. And I want you to think about it, because even though the answer might seem obvious right now, it might not seem so later." He lifts his gaze up to Wheatley; his steel eyes are pale chips of ice, and they feel like they're boring straight through his skull. "Do you really want to remember?"

"Yes." It's out of his mouth before he can even catch himself. Something like excitement sticks inside his ribcage but it wrings the wrong way, and then it's sour and he finds himself feeling rather sick. "I-I mean… I think so." Wheatley forces a swallow and he rubs at his eyes under the frames of his glasses. "Yes. I want to remember. I do. I really do."

Doug's brow knits. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." He pulls an inhale between his teeth and runs his tongue over his lower lip. "Look, I know it's going to be difficult. Well, it's already been difficult, if I'm honest. More than what I was anticipating. A lot more. But it's just… it's the worst feeling in the world to know there's this whole other side of you that you've got no bloody idea about. And I know there's something there. There is. I'm constantly getting these small bits and pieces of it, but never enough to… well, remember."

"Tom told me some are worse than others. I saw that enough for myself." The pen guides Doug's hand again; the notepad has become a black mess of indiscriminate scribbles. "If there's any trace of your previous life here, I might be able to find it. But without details, I can't help. I know there are other variables at play, so things might be hard. That's fine. I'm not expecting a memoir or anything like that. I just… need something to go on. Anything. Even if it's small."

Wheatley doesn't even know where to begin. He could give him an entire bloody world, but there are things he shouldn't say. He shouldn't tell him about what happened Back There. He shouldn't tell him about Her. He shouldn't tell him who he was and what he was; he shouldn't tell him about being ripped out of one body and stuffed into a new one. He shouldn't tell him about the moon, the tests, Her body, her determination, his wrongdoings, his regrets, his transfer, his indecision, his loss.

He shouldn't. He can't. Someone could drag him back. Someone could drag her back. If she was ever pulled back into that nightmarish place because of his own selfish stupidity, he would never forgive himself. God, if She ever pulled her back—he doesn't even know what he would do. He's not brave, he's not clever; he has no apparent usefulness short of mashing his fingers on some instrument in a certain way to make noise. If Aperture ever came back to steal her away, he wouldn't be able to stop it. What could he even do? Shout nonsense at them until they decide his voice is too annoying and so they let her go?

Behind his eyelids, the structure of her cheeks and the slope of her jaw cobble together in a bleary portrait. Her hair is loose, framing the sharpening shape of her face, and her steel eyes stare at him likes starbursts from within the darkness. All he can think of is the night before; of her sitting beyond his doorway, legs crossed, the mahogany metronome ticking by her side, her expression this strange painting of puzzlement and pain, and Wheatley finds it increasingly difficult to breathe.

Why must he be like this?

"Wheatley knew my wife."

Dazed, he looks up at the sound of Thomas's voice. The old man is rubbing his fingers together, staring forlornly at his lap. Dark veins shift over tendon and bone as he fidgets. Firelight licks an orange sheen into his white-grey hair, and Wheatley notices a tangible sense of sadness cracking through the clerk's countenance. He wants to say something, but he finds his voice caught somewhere in the thick of his throat.

"He says he remembers her. Remembers her from when she was very young." The worry lines in Thomas's face furrow deep, and he suddenly looks so very small in the body of his puffy parka. "That shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't. I don't know how it could be. It can't. It's crazy. But he told me things that make me think it might be true."

Doug's posture changes as he sits in the wooden chair; his backbone straightens, lab coat rumpling, and his shoulders square out. Wheatley watches his eyes narrow, but Doug says nothing.

"If it is true," says Thomas, "if it really is true and it's not some… some misremembering or something like that, I don't know. I mean, look at him. Look at him. He barely has a goddamn wrinkle on his face. He's young enough to be my son. Hell, he could even be my grandson. But… if this is true. If this is really something from whatever life he can't remember…" Thomas lifts the frames of his glasses and wipes at his eyes, thumbing wetness from the corners. "Her name was Charlotte. Charlotte Walker. You wanted something to start with, right? So start there."

Something is plucking away on strings somewhere in the back of his head. He can't explain it; it's like someone is playing partial notes, missing pieces of a chord, a broken melody, and he because he can't see the music sheet, he has no way of extrapolating what's being heard to understand and see the bigger picture.

Her name was Charlotte Walker. There's something there. Something. He knows it. He just can't remember.

Bathed in the light from the kerosene and shadows soaking down his gaunt face, Doug flips the page on his notepad. For a brief moment, Wheatley can glimpse what he's been working on. It's a mess of lines and curves and angles, but there's no mistaking it: it's a sketched portrait of Wheatley, thick coat and messy hair and glasses and all.

"I'll do what I can," says Doug. He scribbles something else on the clean sheet of paper, but Wheatley can't see much from his angle. "It'll take me a few days, I think. Maybe more. I might need to look into some other things beyond what I have here."

Thomas nods. "All right. That's fine. Take as much time as you need. Before we go, are you good on everything else? When should I stop by again?"

"Wednesday should be all right." Doug flexes his hands and flattens the notepad facedown into his lap. "I'll need some more kerosene by then. There are a few gallons left, but if it keeps this cold up, it might not make it past Wednesday."

"Right. I'll see you Wednesday, then." Thomas bats Wheatley's arm with a craggy hand as he lifts himself up. "Come on. It's getting late, and we still have a lengthy drive back. I hope you're ready to be a popsicle again."

"What? No. Wait, you're not serious, are you? No, I'm really, really not." Shoving on his knit cap and Thomas's ear-flapped hat, he rises from his chair and follows the stocky clerk through the forest of papers and paint. "You know, I take back what I said earlier. I'd rather just be a crumpled human ball, if I'm honest. Seems much more comfortable than being a bloody frozen lolly. I can uncrumple much faster than I can thaw."

Thomas opens the barn door with a grunt. A gust of icy wind flows in, sharp and bitter, and it's a knife in Wheatley's lungs.

"Well," says Thomas, "better start crumpling then."

Doug watches through the slot in his iron door as the truck pulls away. The crimson glow of the taillights diminishes into nothing, and then the customary darkness pools outside once more. As he pulls the slot shut and double checks that all of the locks have been set, he peers down at his notepad. The words Wheatley and Charlotte Walker and Thomas Key stare back at him in sketchy black ink.

Charlotte Walker doesn't ring any bells. All he knows about her is what the old man has been willing to tell, which hasn't been much. He knows that she passed away nine years ago, and he knows that she was once a very accomplished musician, but that's the extent of it. The rest of her life has been an avoided topic. Doug doesn't blame him for that.

But while Charlotte Walker doesn't ring any bells, Wheatley definitely does. It's strange; he's not sure where he heard it from. He's spent only a couple of years on the surface, but he can count the number of people he's interacted with on one hand. To his knowledge, none of them have been named Wheatley—until tonight.

Scratching his beard in thought, Doug limps back into the main area of the barn to rifle through some of his belongings. He passes the kerosene heater as he makes his way to one of the tables, its surrounding metal cage polished and luminous in the yellow lamplight. The heater is running low, he notes; its fuel gauge is almost empty. He'll need to fill it soon, or else the wick will burn and smoke, and then he'll need to open the door to let fresh air in. It's far too cold for that.

Doug paws through various papers and drawings. As he searches, there is a gentle and flowing murmur that starts to crawl up around him, encroaching around his neck and under his ears. It's neither threatening nor comforting—just familiar.

"Must be wearing off," he mutters, licking his thumb and pulling another set of papers apart. The bottle upstairs is still half full, but Doug always saves them for special occasions. He's never sure when he'll need them. Thomas could get him more, he knows, but the old man has already done so much for him; he doesn't want him to get into further trouble.

Fruitless in his efforts, Doug decides to fill the heater. He maneuvers among the stacks of folders and paintings to the leftmost corner of the barn. After shoving aside a particularly heavy stack, he kneels down to the wooden floor and throws up the hatch door, resting it against the wall. Part of him says to get a flashlight, but he knows he won't need it. He's been here far too long. This place has no more secrets.

The growing whispers follow him as he climbs down the metal ladder. The bars are cold and clammy against his palms, and the smell of mildew meets his nose as he descends into the cellar. When his shoes touch the concrete floor below and he twists away from the hatch, the fierce radiance of the computer screens forces him to squint.

Where is he from? she asks. She's where she always is, nestled beside the old computer tower. Its casing is stark white, but it's cast in a weary grey in the cool light. Cords twist from it, roping away into cramped places within the walls.

"I don't know," he says, moving across the room with halting strides. He pauses by the cluster of blue gallon jugs by one of the supporting beams and grabs one by its handle. It's half empty. "Tom doesn't know, either."

But he knows his late wife? That seems strange. The companion cube has a soft voice. It's gentle and childlike, yet motherly. She's always been his guiding hand; the loudest whisper among them all.

"A lot of things are strange." Doug rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. Tiredness tugs at his lids with insistent fingers, but he rarely feels it any more. There are more important things than sleep. "I guess I'll have to do some digging. Tom says he wants to know who he is."

You should get some rest, she says. The hearts on her sides look almost purple in the monitors' glow. You'll fall asleep down here again, and then the heater will go out.

"I know." He turns back to the ladder, the kerosene jug heavy in his hand. "I think I might lie down for a while."

I think that's a good idea. You shouldn't push yourself so hard.

Doug places a hand on a metal rung. "Will you wake me up? All I need is an hour. Maybe two."

The companion cube and the menagerie of screens dissolve into the gripping darkness of the cellar as he makes his ascent.

I'll try my best.