“No, no numbers. Or Battle Royale.” A brief pause. “Well. I mean.” He spreads his hands. “There was something of a situation with murderous zombies made of our previous deaths last week, and like I said, the operas made of everyone’s worst moments. But these things are… it’s a different feeling here. Does that make sense? They’re less frequent, and they aren’t targeted at us in the same way. There is evil. I will not lie to you about that. There is something horribly dark brewing in the island. But… there is not only evil. Look.”

He gestures outside to the yard, where the flowers he was gifted by Radar are growing, where the doves are cooing and preening, where the late Spring sun is setting to prepare for another day.

“We are not fish in a barren tank. We live. We couldn’t do that before.”