"It's too quiet."

"It's 4 AM, baby." Mint kisses my hand, the one he's been clinging to all night long, still being half-asleep. "It's supposed to be quiet."

"Not that. Days are passing by, and nothing happens. Something's off."

It's enough to wake him up.

"Can I come back to the bed now?" he sighs, sitting up on the floor.

I nod. He climbs by my side and hugs me tight. I have no idea how he can be so warm after sleeping down there without a blanket. He's something else. He doesn't need a pillow to sleep. He doesn't need a mat. He doesn't need covers. He needs my hand only.

His comforting heat almost lulls me back to sleep. And his not exactly comforting but strangely reassuring hardness almost persuades me to talk about something else, or not talk at all. But I can't delay any longer. People are dying out there while I play K-I-S-S-I-N-G here with him.

"When was the last time Pavlov called?" I ask him.

"Yesterday," he answers, kissing my neck. "He calls every fucking day."

"But he does nothing else."

"Except for mentioning that his patience is wearing thin, not really. He always asks about you, though. But not in a threatening way. He probably knows that now it's serious."

I breathe out. I refrain from tapping my forehead.

"Did the mole give him an update?" I guess. "But I'm still not screaming."

"Thank God for that. But it's still pretty evident that you have a solid reason to occupy my bed."

That's true. Mint treats me as if I was one of his body parts, grabbing, rubbing, fondling, scratching me in front of everyone. That's hard to miss, indeed. And fucking annoying, too. If I wanted someone going for permanent body contact with me, I'd buy a dog.

"I missed your answer regarding the snitch," I remind him.

"He was asked to refrain from being overly talkative in the future."

"Did you kill him?"

"Nah."

"Do you want to shield me from your harsh reality, or what?"

"No," he protests. "I'm telling you the truth. I didn't kill him."

"Jorge killed him, then," I guess.

"Yeah."

"Okay. So, all in all, Pavlov sacrificed his mole for a good, strong joke. Do you think it's normal?"

"Normal?" He shrugs. "He's not normal, by default. Maybe he couldn't control his irresistible sense of humor. Maybe he had enough information. Or maybe he just wanted to help us to get together."

"Why?"

"Because he noticed that you wanted to jump me, baby, but you seemed too reserved to do it without some nudging."

"Not that. Why did he have enough information?"

"You still didn't deny the other thing," he purrs, nibbling on my neck. "I knew you wanted to sleep with me so badly. I'm not blind, baby."

"The information," I remind him, rolling my eyes. "He's not behaving logically."

"He's a psycho, Mary. What do you expect from him?"

"But he's an intelligent psycho. Just like me."

Mint stops kissing my neck, grabs me forcefully, and pins me to the bed, looming over me. I don't even freak out. I got used to it; he does this frequently. There are things he's simply not intelligent enough to remember for a prolonged time. Like my limitations, for example.

"Don't you dare to say that, baby," he commands.

"Okay," I agree, to make him let me go as soon as possible. "I'm just—"

"I love you," he says simply, interrupting everything I wanted to say. Or do. Or think.

Then, as if wanting to give me time and privacy to digest his words, he closes his eyes and lies down on me, resting his head on my chest. Or, rather, as if he was guarding me, physically, from running away, screaming. It's an effective method, I must admit. His crushing weight keeps my mind focused instead of finding a place to hide until the Matrix turns back into a fully operational mode.

This must be another glitch. Something I failed to calculate, again.

Like any glitch, it scares me to death. It's the worst feeling imaginable. Standing on solid ground one moment, and being swallowed by quicksand, to another. All because there is an error in the system I failed to detect.

I'm a failure. I messed up my calculations again. It's my fault.

No, I must stop it. Mint's very substantial presence pressing me to the mattress helps me not to go there, submerging into the welcoming space where there are no materials, no persons, no complications, only thoughts, in their purest form. It's a place I know well. A place I might never return from if my presence wasn't needed here.

Mint might be joking. He must be. He must know by now that I'm not able to reciprocate such complicated feelings in kind. I'm not capable of emotions that complex. It's a fact. A rare truth. Why does he do this to me, then?

"Your heartbeat is so fast," he says, kissing the skin above the pounding. "Don't worry, baby. I don't expect you to answer anything."

Well, that's good news, I guess. I couldn't, even if he wanted me to.

"I know I can't keep you here any longer," he goes on, after thoroughly kissing my panic better. "But you need to know that I'll always be there for you."

"If I want it or not?"

I'm close enough to him to watch his gaze turning to doubtful, from mere inches. Then, to insecure. Then, to troubled.

"No, of course," he answers, rolling off of me, letting me breathe, finally. "Only if you want me."

"Why would I want someone who wants me dead?"

To upset.

"I don't want you to die, baby," he whispers. "How can you think that?"

"Okay," I answer. "Correction. Someone who would allow me to die."

To frightened.

"I'll never let anything bad happen to you, baby," he forces out as if something got caught in his throat. "You should know that. I'll take care of you."

"You know that I don't matter," I remind him. "I told you already. I only care about my lambs. And my previous lambs. And maybe some other people who are like me. My life doesn't matter to me."

To tortured.

It feels like kicking a dog. A simple-minded creature that has no idea why I hurt him, all of a sudden. But it's not my fault. It's his. He doesn't take the things I say seriously. Again, he forgot the most important thing: that everything I say is aimed to move events towards the best outcome of the situation, and my endgame goal. Which are quite the same, actually.

"Do you think I'm useless?" I ask him. "Do you think that I'm a burden to the people like you?"

To broken.

My previous studies, trying to determine his breaking point, proved effective. I notice the very moment when something changes in him. I can follow the thoughts running behind his eyes, like an unbreakable chain of impulses, following each other in a quite illogical but still coherent order. I'm able to identify the single point in time when he makes his decision.

I feel a different kind of tightness in my chest. Not the one I feel when someone calls me weird or strange.

"No," he answers. "You're the most capable person I know. And don't worry. Everything's going to be all right, okay? I'll take care of everything."

I breathe out. It doesn't help. I breathe out three times. The tightness still refuses to go away. It wants to force me to share my stupid feelings, preconceptions, and beliefs, like a dimwit.

But I won't do that. My duty is to keep everyone alive. I'm the hand that finds the singular line of events in space and time that leads people to safety. People who are committed to my care. And people who aren't. I can't let any of them get lost.

I calculated everything. I can't change my mind.