One muddy shoe and two muddy socks rest in the corner behind the door. The motel room looks like any other motel room. Beige carpeted floor, orange blanket on the bed, cheap wood panel wall. An old clunky TV sits on the dresser blocking a good portion of the mirror behind it.

The room is clean, unused. I'm not sure why the door was unlocked. And I don't want to guess. I don't want to think.

The black box stands upright on the bed, its weight sinking the sheets. I sit on a wooden chair, facing the box, staring at it, and I get the strange feeling that it's staring back at me.

Suddenly, I jolt up and grab the backrest of the chair with both hands. Swinging the chair over my head in a wide arc, I bring the corner of the seat down into the top of the box, smashing a dent into the black metal. The tower tips over and falls sideways on the mattress. I swing the chair up again and bring it down on the side of the box. The metal dents again and I hear something loosen inside. I smash it again, then again, and I can her myself growling like a mad dog, images of Gravy's blank stare flash in my mind.

Dropping the chair onto the carpet, I grab the box with both hands. I lift it over my head and chuck it against the wall with all my strength.

The metal box clatters on the ground, things are rattling inside. A screw pops off and I pick up the box again – over my head then straight down to the floor. Another screw pops out and the metal side of the box opens like a book cover, revealing computer parts inside—motherboards, wires, fan blades.

Gripping the chair again, I raise it up and slam it down again. I smash it again and again until I'm sweating and gasping, and for some reason, I'm laughing, too. And I can't control it.