You put your back into it.

The wheel stays a wheel. The pin stays a pin. A warning tone happens, bored and loud. The abyss does not come in, because people who are not you designed the door for kids who want to be legends.

You sit down on the corridor floor. The mountain of water sits on the hatch. You both wait. Only one of you is embarrassed.

Vargas offers a hand, not a speech. “Pressure holds doors. Good. Use the mouth we built.”

Reed, still hovering: “Paz would like the recipe now.”

You stand. Your badge pokes your collarbone. JUNIOR feels accurate, and also like a job you can still do.

Turn to 35.