That woman’s glorious scream was still in my ears. I admit to a somewhat childish enjoyment in mentally replaying her reaction to that dead body at her feet—a morbid gift I had provided to her. There was also this timber to her voice, a guttural and mournful wail, as if she finally realized it all: her death, her inexplicable time waiting in this infernal limbo, and finally the awful little closet that might mean the end of everything. Horror following horror.

Of course the fact that I was able to have such thoughts, having survived my own death, meant that death itself probably wasn’t what I once assumed it to be.

And thus, I was beginning to believe that those who go into those closets didn’t actually die. Though most likely they went somewhere. And if that “somewhere” was to be the next destination in my life—for it was clear I couldn’t leave the building in the normal manner—I needed some idea what would be waiting for me on the other side.

I sat in one of the armchairs in the lounge thinking of various strategies. But no matter what tactic I began fomenting, I’d eventually hit a wall. There were too many unknown variables.

Information. I needed more information. First, why did I remember everything from my life? My life before arriving here. The others didn’t—well, some managed to retain a few scraps, but none were as clear-headed as me. And here? Where was here? According to what I saw on that TV set, I was in San Antonio, Texas. But that sounded…inauspicious. And, apparently, I had traveled a few years into the future? I had heard people talk about the Changes. What was that? If I had died and come back to life, did that give me any sort of edge over these people? And why couldn’t I leave the building without my body transforming into something not human? My mind flashed on a series of experiments that could be quite illuminating. Such as sending some of my fellow contestants down the elevator to see if they would experience what I had. Probably too late, after all the chaos I had created. My handlers would be more watchful, more vigilant.

And, most importantly, what happened to those people put through the doors at the end of the game show? Did they arrive somewhere much in the manner we all appeared here, in those damn arrival pods? If so, would I find myself woozy, weak? Too disorientated to take action?

If that man with the wig, Silverio Moreno, was telling the truth, there were two outcomes. One good, for having lived a virtuous life. While the other promised punishment. The latter mostly likely would be my fate. The dreaded Door Number Two.

I had no desire to go off into some situation ill-informed. So, information. I knew what I needed to know. Now, how best to acquire it?

Then I heard a click from across the lounge. The stairway door up to the studio opened. It was the woman from the elevator. Nora. She did seem to work late. It was well past nine o’clock.

She had called herself the Assistant to the Superintendent of Elevator Services. Why would she be working in the studio? Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was whether or not she held useful information.

I watched as she moved about the lounge, searching for something. When she neared the cluster of chairs and sofas where I sat, I cleared my throat. She froze, startled. When I caught her eye, I smiled.

“We meet again,” I said. “You work in the studio as well as the elevators?”

“Huh? No, I….” Her eyes darted about the room. I saw she clutched a key in her hand. “I had to come back. I forgot my tool belt upstairs.” She laughed, her fingers awkwardly patting at the belt from which dangled various tools. “You haven’t seen a roll of duct tape around, have you?”

“I have not.” It became apparent she would be of little use to me. Just a flustered menial.

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She dipped her head, muttered something about how it was nice to see me up and about, and she quickly rushed off.

She departed through the door that lead to the lobby and the elevators. When the door clicked shut behind her, I felt confident no one else would be troubling me for the rest of the night.

The radical change in that young woman wasn’t lost on me. Only yesterday she had radiated so much sympathy. Now, raw fear.

She knew. And if some low-level maintenance worker knew, who else?

I stood, stretched, and walked to Dr. Hetzel’s office. I’d overheard her tell a colleague she’d be working late.

The doctor looked up from a pile of paperwork when I entered.

“August. Nice to see you.”

After pulling the door shut behind me, I sat in the chair facing her desk. No fear in her eyes. Maybe not everyone knew. Though it struck me as odd. Wouldn’t someone have told her?

She put down her pen and gave me her full attention.

“Not chosen again, were you? I was watching tonight’s show on the TV.” She pointed to the television set atop a row of filing cabinets. “Soon, August. Soon.”

“That woman, Susan.”

“Who? Oh, tonight’s winner. Yes?”

“She screamed.”

“Don’t read too much into that, August. The process of working with active Readers, especially during such a heightened experience as live TV, sometimes results in temporary confusion.” She pushed the pile of papers half an inch away from her. “I wouldn’t be concerned,” she said in that sort of cloying manner one uses to address a child.

Had she not seen Hal’s body at Susan’s feet? Did those bumbling fools with all their cameras and broadcast devices fail to capture a clean shot of my handiwork?

“It’s time to stop feeding me all this nonsense,” I told her.

Dr. Hetzel blinked.

“August?”

“I can make this easier on you by asking specific questions,” I said in a soft but firm manner. “We have a lot of topics to cover tonight.” I produced Michael’s key and placed it on Dr. Hetzel’s desktop.

“Where did you get that?”

“I am quite resourceful.” I reached out and rubbed the key. “With one of these, I can now move about freely.” I leaned in closer, watching her pupils and those tiny muscles around her eyes. “Or so I thought. You see, I tried to leave the building the other night. Can you guess what happened?”

No overt reaction, but I knew she was struggling to regain her equanimity.

“Now, look, August. I am a trained professional. I have been working with those, well, those like yourself for years. We can discuss all this tomorrow. I’ll pencil you in for a consultation sometime in the early afternoon. Now you need to go back to your room. It’s late. And I’ll need to keep this key.”

“What I need is for you to begin by telling me why I can’t go beneath the tenth floor, more or less, without my body turning to putty?”

“This is not the time—”

“Oh, we have plenty of time.” I placed the roll of duct tape on the desk beside the key. “All night, in fact.”

There. A twitch. An involuntary spasm of the inferior oblique of her left eye.

“Now, August, there could be consequences to these actions of yours.”

“I’m willing to take that risk. Besides, I’m quite sure you have never encountered one of your brainless contestants who wasn’t absolutely docile.” She swallowed and her right hand opened up pressing down flat on the surface to the desk. Clearly, she’d never learned to resolve the conflicting fight or flight impulses. “No? No protocol in place for when one of us pushes back? I thought not.”

“I know you, August. You’re a kind man. An honorable man. So, let’s be reasonable.”

A plea for reason? I was surprised she had such undeveloped bargaining skills.

“I’ve learned that you people in show business are weak,” I said. She swallowed again, this time it was more difficult for her. “There’s no fight in you, none of you. I thought I might have had some fun with that director of yours.”

“Hal? August! What have you done?” In a panic, Dr. Hetzel reached for her intercom.

I swept it to the floor in a loud clatter.

“Hal went down like a sack of potatoes. And he did not come back up.”

Hal had been an afterthought. I had been on autopilot, so to speak. But this? I had forgot how much I enjoyed this place, this way of being. Having absolute control. The sense of strength. Decisiveness. Everything I did from here on out would be executed with clean, beautiful precision. This wonderful place of calm. It was as if I was finally breathing clean air after being surrounded by a stale, fetid stench.

I stood up and in a firm and fluid movement lifted Dr. Hetzel’s desk and with a quick pivot deposited it to the side of the room. I handed her the roll of tape.

“You’re going to tape your left wrist to the arm of your chair. Then you will hand me back the tape, and I’ll do the same to your other wrist, and then your ankles. Let’s not turn this into a game.”

Wordlessly she followed my instructions. Of course she did.

It was a long night for the both of us. But sometime before dawn, she had told me everything she knew. About the show, about the world beyond the doors. Everything.