10. The memory of the number was a single, clean note.
He was a single drop of water. But he was him . A tiny, perfect sphere of consciousness wrapped in surface tension. flushed away 1 10
But the number hummed: 10 . He focused. He pushed his mass to his leading edge, a tiny, cresting wave. The surface tension stretched, strained, and then— pop —he detached a minuscule portion of himself, a decoy droplet that slid down the grease. The sudden shift in balance yanked the rest of him forward. He repeated the trick, over and over. Leapfrogging himself down the falls. It was exhausting. It took an hour. But he was him
He looked at the hundred dark tunnels. Then he looked up, at the faint, watery light from the manhole cover. He focused