Chapter Eleven
Everyone is special, in their own right, but some determinedly more so than others.
Dr. Richard Dubose was not special—at least not in the way that the building recognized as being so. From a genetic perspective, he was spectacularly, ridiculously, overwhelmingly ordinary.
So how had he discovered the building in the first place?
You could argue his fancy device had something to do with it: electromagnetic bloodhound doodad, or whatever he called it.
You could say it was intuition. Spend enough years studying a thing, the thing might begin to study you.
You could say it was luck. If you were to say that such a thing existed at all.
You could say a lot of things, but you couldn’t prove any of them. The building was funny like that. It liked being obvious, and opaque, and an absurd combination of the two.
You could say he was meant to find the building.
He’d like to say that, at any rate.
In the lengthy-short-eternal lifespan of the building, Dr. Richard Dubose was one of the very few ordinary people to ever stumble across its premises.
Maybe it meant he was extraordinarily brilliant.
Maybe it meant he searched farther and wider than anyone else would have had the gumption for hunting down a nonexistent building.
Or maybe the building just wanted a friend for once.
But honestly, who’s to say?
Regardless of the means or reasons behind Dr. Richard Dubose’s presence in the building, there was no denying the fondness he held for the Eschatorologic, or the fondness that was reciprocated in return. He loved the gray walls that held all the potential imaginable (in his opinion). He loved the mystery of it all, even when he had spent so many decades searching to unravel as much of it as he could. Above all, he loved the people in the building.
And he loved what they could do.
Everly Tertium departed from the building—though she would return, Richard knew, if history was to be any indication—and Richard found himself nearly giddy. This was why he loved it, his role here. All the threads and pieces and links that formed the longer you sat with the puzzle that was the building.
He never would have guessed, fifty, sixty years before, upon beginning his great search for answers. He never would have guessed about her. Yet there she was—at the beginning, at the end, and in all the cracks and crevices in between. She was everywhere, and he never would have guessed.
His granddaughter.
And now he was close, so close, to fixing everything. Making it all right. He’d found her, he’d gotten her to come. Now he just had to make sure she returned.
And then he could save her.
Her very existence nearly defied all logic. Now, it was up to him to ensure she continued to exist.
He wouldn’t fail.
I’ll make it right, he thought. This time, no mistakes.
He hadn’t wanted to tell the Warden, not right away. He’d wanted to be sure. But now, after meeting her so many times and having so many identical conversations, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It was her. It would always be her.
Richard was high with the possibilities of it all as he stood in the elevator, inserting the key into the narrow slot by the button labeled B2 and riding it down into the very heart of the Eschatorologic. He was jittery with anxious energy as he walked down the black hallways of the building’s lowest level. As he reached the office’s door, he made a concentrated effort to stifle his nerves, settle his resolve.
It was always slightly jarring, coming into the Warden’s office—being affronted with the screen that was set up between the door and the rest of the room, blocking much of the light that was cast from the desk lamp on the other side. Richard always felt the smallest pinch of annoyance when faced with the screen. In a certain context, he understood the necessity for it. The Warden held a power in the building that was hard to define and would be harder to retain without the distinct level of mystique that was cast over the role by the lack of knowledge as to the Warden’s identity. But Richard knew—of course he knew. Richard, in many ways, had helped to shape the position of the Warden. He should have held nearly as much credit as the Warden did, yet here he was, separated on the other side of the screen.
He supposed he should be grateful. So few even made it to this side of the screen at all.
From across the room, he heard the shuffling of papers. He knew the Warden heard him come in and was listening, so Richard cleared his throat and tried to speak with as much authority as he could muster. Always so much harder with that screen in the way.
“We had a visitor today.”
Silence. Richard cleared his throat again, determined not to be deterred by such a nonreaction.
“My granddaughter, as it happens.” He paused before saying, “Everly.”
From the other side of the room came a new kind of silence. He wished—oh, how he wished—that he could see the Warden’s face right now. Could see what would be splayed across it.
“I believe she will return,” Richard plowed on valiantly. “And then I can test her, of course.” Not that he needed to, really. “This is a good thing, you know,” he continued when the Warden remained silent. “For all of us. You, me, her. The building. We all stand to profit from this. I know you value your . . . privacy, but you have to understand that Everly coming here will only benefit us all.”
Everly, Richard thought. She had always used a different name, and he had always known that it was a fake, but now, having heard her true name from her, it rang so bright and real for him. He was tempted to repeat it aloud, but he knew that the Warden wouldn’t appreciate it, so he bit his tongue, deciding not to push his luck.
Finally, finally, a voice came from the other side of the room. “Very well. Keep me posted.”
That was all the Warden had to say. Richard opened his mouth, feeling like he should have been entitled to more of a conversation. But it was clear that the Warden was done, and so he was as well.
Besides. There was more work to be done.
