You're asking the wrong person, if you're asking. Corwin hasn't had many experiences with actual friends. But he's willing to give it a try. He picks himself up from his armchair, beckoning for her to follow him down the hall. "This way, this way, I'll show it to you."

It isn't far. Past the den, around the corner, and there's the single open bedroom right there, door ajar. This one looks a little nicer than the rest of the house, with an only slightly threadbare quilt on the bed and a dresser painted carefully white. It's as if he's kept it in constant readiness in the hopes of someday, maybe, having a guest for the night-and-or-day. There is a window, but like the rest its curtains are heavy and drawn tight against outsiders. The window, if peeked through, opens onto the tiny snow-dotted backyard, neatly fenced in and mostly bare except for a few more pieces of lab equipment and a picnic table.