The liquid was not cold or hot. It was familiar . It slipped into his pores, his ears, the corners of his lips. His vision doubled, then tripled, then collapsed into a single image:
And today was the Bath.
He remembered now. This was the dream he'd buried. Not a monster. Not a fall.
"You are the dream," said the child. "Not me."
Arden hesitated. The other students—the ones who'd attempted 01-05-01 before him—were now in the infirmary, their eyes open but seeing nothing. Their mouths moved, whispering conversations from dreams that had eaten their way out.
Integrated.
"Candidate 01-05-01," a voice said. Not a person. The room itself. The walls exhaled the words through hidden brass grilles. "Your bath is ready."
The water was always the first thing you felt. Not the chalkboard, not the cold metal of the desk. The water.