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The room we entered was an exact replica—made by the computers, I supposed--of the second-floor factory office I’d grown up in. The same pinprick lights that had brought the fake sunlight to the bathing room at Harriet’s were now somehow creating this illusion, as if they could shape light like clay. Every detail was perfect, down to my father’s old camping stove.
“Where are we?” Agnes asked me.
“Where I grew up,” I said. “On the ass-end. I don’t know why yet.”
A door, on the far end of the room—just like the old door that led to the metal stairs and the yard where the wild dogs and feral cats roamed—opened with a creak, and he came in.
I don’t know how he’ll choose to appear to you, C.R.C. had said.
I don’t know how he’ll choose to appear to you,The man who came through the d
