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Aniridia walks and pieces things together. This is a house with a train stop out front: however strange either construct might be, she’s sure of that. It’s not a house she’s meant to leave.

What kind of house has doors that only lead in? A prison. An asylum. Really, the same thing.

The frequency of her heart ascends, but Aniridia quells it. Prisons are just one extension of a system of control. Control implies a desire for order, and order, says Newton, implies a system not fully closed.

Aniridia snaps the handle off the pump and starts prying up the floor.