Under Andy's orders, Remington stayed home for the whole two weeks, letting his Perfect make him soup and tea and sleeping, most nights and some days, in his lap, like a cat. By the time the two weeks was over, he felt fully well and energetic and ready to go back to work, and on the Monday morning, he said to Andy over breakfast, "I promise I'll come back early is I start feeling bad again, okay?"

"Yes, good," Andy said, "and that was not a lie." 

"Are you gonna do that every time I say something?" 

"Only when it is necessary. But I will not do it when you are talking to anyone else, or when were are not alone, because I must respect your privacy." 

Remington bit into his toast, chewed, swallowed, and said, "Thanks. You're the best." 

"I am glad you are better now, Remi. You look much healthier. All your colour has returned. How long will you be at the studio today?" 

He shrugged. "I don't know. Depends how stressed my brothers turn out to be. But I'll be back by eleven at the latest, I promise." 

"That is a good idea." 

"Anyway, what're you doing today?" 

"I will continue my painting." 

"Is there any reason you're painting your building on fire?" 

Andy looked at him and any sense of humanity in his expression vanished. "I do not know," he said eventually, and sounded both confused and certain. "I could not tell you, because I do not know myself. Why do you ask?" 

"Just curious. It's really good." 

"Thank you, Remington." 

"I never thought you'd be, like, capable of depicting such a destructive image, that's all." 

"Yes, I see what you mean. But as I said, I do not now why, just that I needed to." 

"You needed to?" 

Andy's eyebrows furrowed and he suddenly looked human again. "Remington, this is most unusual for me to say, but I am afraid I do not understand my own actions or indeed my own thoughts where this painting is concerned. I am sorry, I wish I could explain to you, but I cannot. You understand?" 

"Yes, of course," Remington said, and made a mental note to look this up in the information manual that evening. "Sorry for bringing it up, it's making you tense." 

"No, it is okay. I enjoy telling you about my artwork." 

Once Remington was gone and he had the house to himself, Andy say for a long time and looked at his painting. He ran his fingers over the paint, imagined the heat of the fire, the ash of the aftermath, the air cloudy with smoke and embers. The paint was textured. He'd layered it on with both brushes and a pallet knife, and as he felt the grooves, the indents, and the lumps, he realised that he wanted more, that he needed more. 

He didn't know why, or what more was, just that he needed it. To create more than a painting, to feel more than the smoothness of dried acrylic paint, to, perhaps, destroy more than a building that didn't exist. 

He thought then about telling these strange thoughts to Remington, but Remington would be gone all day, and while he had his phone number memorized, he didn't want to interrupt his first day back at work, not with this. 

Picking up a pen, he begun writing. 

Feel like a dead man walking. Feel like a dead man walking. A dead man. Walking. Feel like a dead man walking. 

Then he put the pen down, picked up the paper, and went down to the living room, where a lighter for the fire was on the mantle piece. Andy lit a corner of the paper and watched it catch, staring at it until his fingers were licked by the flame and he dropped it into the fire pit and stepped back. The flame withered away. 

Remington returned at just gone ten, and could tell straight away something was wrong, but couldn't place what. In bed, he said, "How's your painting?" And Andy abruptly sat up and again did not look human. 

"I do not know," he answered, and he sounded utterly robotic. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yes, thank you." 

"You seem...different." 

"I am fine." 

It was the first time Remington found him scary. "Sure?" 

"Yes, thank you." 

"Andy, are you sure? I'm not convinced." 

"I am not capable of lying, Remington." 

"Yes, but you don't sound normal." 

"I am not normal, Remington." 

"I mean, you don't sound like you normally sound." 

"Then you do not know me very well." 

"What's wrong?" 

"There's nothing wrong. Please stop asking." 

"Andy..." 

The Perfect got out of the bed and Remington asked where he was going. "To finish my painting," he said, emotionless, and left.