You are in a silo, a tall, dull-grey cylinder. Someone has taken the time to live here. A hammock is suspended high above. The floor, taped and re-taped, still has holes. Towers of tin cans line painted walls.
- Searching, looking, you get a feel for the place. Whomever lived here is long gone, after a long stay. There are perhaps dozens of tin cans, and, reading the label, contained tuna, salmon, mushrooms, and so on; water was probably collected in areas around the roof. Physically, there seemed no reason to leave.
You jab a finger through one of the taped holes in the floor. The tape is layered, neatly, one nearly identical piece over the other, measured so that the widths of three strips cross over the length of one strip. Great care and time has been given so that no mistakes were made. (Crumpled-up pieces of tape—the mistakes—have been stuffed in nooks and crannies, you find.)
The labels on the cans, you notice, all face to the center of the silo, ordered by expiry date, alphabetized, upright. Labels torn are labels taped. Labels taped are labels out of place. Corresponding areas must be taped—and thus they are, torn or not.
The walls are painted sky blue. The paint must have been runny, for large, hardened droplets are seen everywhere. Certain areas are painted more thickly. You suspect that behind the stacked tin cans, repainting had been done, with each can taken, placed in order out of the way; the painting ensued; the tin cans were placed back, in order, the way they were.
The hammock, impractically high up, you leave alone. Getting up and down each time would only come with effort, or exercise.
Nothing is here to take.
Possible actions:
- Leave
Inventory:
- You carry only a bent knife and a smashed radio. It has been a long ride. Your blue jeans are shredded; the T-shirt, stretched 2 sizes larger, is more red than white, and your shoes are unaccounted for. You wear a crumpled paper party hat.
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