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Mark Scout was dreaming of the severed floor. That should not have been possible. It was a nightmare—no thought of that place could be anything but.
He stood in the labyrinthine hallway. On the other end—Gemma, who was so unlike herself, her posture stiff, expression blank. He needed to reach her, touch her, to know she was solid before she slipped away.
But she turned a corner and disappeared from his sight. Mark sprinted to catch up, but when he rounded the corner, she was already on the other end, disappearing from his sight again.
The chase seemed to last an eternity—her at an even pace, Mark’s legs nearly tearing free from their joints. He just had to be faster; then he could catch up.
“Your outie once caught a butterfly,” her previous words echoed.
Gemma’s silhouette shifted into something new. Now, in the distance, stood Irving. He wore the fur coat and hat he had during the ORTBO, standing out starkly against the sterile white walls. Irving was walking away with purpose, but still, it was away. He was maddeningly more elusive. Mark only saw him in glimpses of the black coat.
“Irving!” Mark called. If Irving had heard, he did not indicate it—just kept walking farther away. Mark was already breathless from running; still, he shouted, “Wait! Come back!” The pleas did nothing but leave him wheezing.
Mark awoke, disoriented. Who had that man been? He knew him in the dream. Mark tried so hard to clutch onto the knowledge, but it seemed to be made of mist, walled off from full comprehension. The more he tried, the more it felt like driving an icepick into his mind. He could not recall the man’s name, even though he had called it out many times. The only clear thing that remained were the feelings—now rendered unexplainable: loss, hopelessness, and shame.
Mark often dreamed of Gemma. It never helped to dwell on them. He tried to push it away by focusing on this new puzzle piece. Reintegration was progressing. The man must be someone his innie knew. Still, he felt like he hadn’t learned anything of use. He thought fervently, in circles, until it grew too maddening. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t just lie in bed any longer. He needed to do something.
Mark got up and went to the kitchen. He put some coffee on and began to pace.
Suddenly, the dim light of his kitchen was replaced by the bright white of his dream. He was standing with Petey in the office kitchenette, his sleeve rolled up as he poured his coffee. Covering his arm were deep red nail marks. Petey must have done it to himself in the breakroom. He’d been sent there because of Mark—one of Mark’s early acts of rebellion, back when he’d thought he could escape—and now Petey had to suffer the consequences.
Mark brushed his fingers against the marks, careful not to cause more pain. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes met Petey’s. They were soft and brown, showing no trace of the anger Mark thought should be there. Petey opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Mark was ripped back into the present. Reeling, he sat down on the cold tile of his floor.
Mark was struck by the feeling that he didn’t know where he was. He tried to tell himself this was irrational, but he was being pulled in two different directions. Part of him knew it was his home, but another part of his mind felt like he’d never been here before. He thought of his eyes meeting Petey’s in the kitchenette, replaying the tape behind his eyelids. But somehow the footage got corrupted, and he was seeing Petey at the gas station, blood all over his face, how he’d looked at Mark before collapsing. He could not get the scene to stop replaying—Petey catching his eyes, and then dying, again and again.
He imagined his dream—Gemma turning into the familiar man, and then this time, the man turning into Petey. But when Petey turned the corner, he wasn’t anywhere. No glimpses of his suit or bathrobe in the distance—he was just gone.
Mark had severed to escape grief. And now here it was, a stone sinking into his gut. But Gemma was alive. When he found her, this feeling would go away. It had to.
He needed to ground himself. Mark remembered his old therapist—the one with the mustache—telling him to focus on his breath. They’d gone over breathing exercises, which he’d thought were bullshit at the time, and maybe still did. He tried to breathe in deeply through his nose, hold it in his stomach, and then breathe out through his mouth. Somehow, this made Mark feel like he was choking. Was he doing something wrong? How the hell was it possible to breathe incorrectly?
Right after Gemma died, Mark dreamed about her every night. He thought constantly of the call notifying him that she had died and asking him to come identify the body. He used to wake up expecting the call to come again, dreading something that had already happened, something that had already ripped his life out of its foundation. The fear made no sense. On those nights, he’d call Devon. Regardless of how late, she always answered. Mark found his fingers reaching for his phone and typing in her number.
She answered after the first few rings. “Mark? What’s wrong?” Sleep and concern in her voice.
“Nothing, just a bad dream. Sorry to wake you,” Mark said, trying to keep his voice steady. He realized he had no idea what he could say. He couldn’t tell Devon about being reintegrated; she’d kill him for making such a risky decision, especially without telling her. But he didn’t want to lie to her right now.
“I don’t really want to talk. Can you talk to me about something? Anything. And I’ll just listen,” Mark said. It sounded desperate and made him cringe.
“Of course.” He could hear her shifting around, probably going to a place she could talk without being heard. “Ricken and I are thinking about getting new floorboards put in the bathroom. He wants a lightwood—”
He listened to her talk about trivial things until 3 a.m. The familiar cadence of her voice was comforting. He was sure he'd feel guilty about keeping her up later, but at that moment, he just felt thankful.