You spasm, falling to your knees. This is not, you think, normal stomach cramps: you feel all knotted up inside, drawn up and in. Goop is continuing to drip. Your right eye is blurring. Maybe you need Richard, not the Her— ow! Acid reflux! You digest yourself— you— consume— the gulfweed bridges the gaps between people, and— oh, God— what if there is no gap? What if the gulfweed is trying to connect you to—

What if the gulfweed— Your own thoughts ring tinny in your ears. You are really just vomiting: have generated a substantial puddle. (The Director is wringing his hands and wondering aloud about towels.) Your blurry eye, your bad eye, is blind. Goop is coming out. Why didn't Richard stop you? He didn't even try— you're in his head— and he's only behind a door. Does he know this is happening?

»Yes.«

And he's letting you puke on the Director's floor?

»An excellent source has informed me that it will all work out in the end.«

An excellent source? Ah. An excellent source. You. You will tell him it will work— him in the past— and he will carry that knowledge onto the future. He's known it'll work out the whole time, and he still opted to badger you left and right. Typical Richard. Still, you should've known: the only way out is through. Herald. (Your gut sucks inward.) Herald. (You are turning, it feels, inside out.) Herald. (You are in a small hot space inside your skin, and everything surrounding is semi-solid.) Herald. Heave up and out and expel about a gallon of goop— narrowly missing the Director's shoes— and a thing about the size of a marble. Fall forward and stain your hands black. Look at the marble.

It is glowing violently. "What is that?" the Director is saying, panicked. "Are you okay? Do I need to get you— I mean, call someone to get you— I'm sure there's a tube open, if you've caught ill, or—"

You pick up the sun. It's hot in your sticky palm, but doesn't burn. You roll it around, uncertain, then remember. Is anything left of your bad eye? It's melted entirely. You hold your eye socket open and slide it in. It fits. You blink.

It radiates backward, the sun's light, flooding your mind and then your body. Neither can contain it. For your body, you arch up and stretch out, your neck unrolling smoothly, and your tail— and no spots. For your mind?

The Director has scrabbled all the way back to the wall, where he's frozen, limbs splayed, like a pinned bug. "H— He— Her—"

A second before you say the words, you hear yourself saying them— so you're only repeating. You don't know where they come from. A script. Don't be afraid.

"Herald," the Director whimpers.

I'm not here to punish you. Even though I did tell you so. The Director has lived its life in this room. It doesn't know evil. I'm not here to bring the Dawn either. Please don't ask about that.

(2/5)