I awoke to find my knuckles scraped and a thin film across my eyes. The butcher-surgeons were still there on the floor, having attracted others to their vigil, enough that each member for the first time needed a name so as not to mistake one for the other. Mask, Decoy, Disruption, Rupture, Mimicry, Discolor, Tedium. They had somehow decided that in order to regain the paradise of disaster in the fields they would bring the surrogate to life, so as to perfect its death through a perfect performance of the imagined final moments, whose failure has so long haunted the doctors they could no longer remember the details, an ache they had grown used to, leaving them uncertain as to how to proceed, filling me with a certainty that when their resurrection act failed they would tear the building apart as well as everyone in it.

the exit is hidden within the exit