The answer to the technician’s riddle was the word torque. Rotational force. You found yourself at the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by the dispersed light of stars. Pressure breach. The sound of a single gasp. On the escalator, the inky stamps of leaves. A season of lust has something in common with any season. You touched me like you were recovering a past. I twisted myself into the blue-green rope that would save you, I threw myself down to you, willed you to climb out. Please recover. Let’s take the elevator, fifteenth floor to ground level, walk out of this building. Walk away from this story. I’m haunted by the endings I imagine. How fear rends. It won’t happen that way, I repeat to myself over and over. When time stops, each cell in my body will unlock. Each contains the same image: a face. The mouth gapes open, but there is no sound. Nothing to defend.