That night, Evelyn dreamed of mirrors in her own hallway. She looked at herself in one. Then another one, mirroring the first, gently polished her appearance, which was further corrected by another. She moved from mirror to mirror, seemingly on a quest to improve her appearance, till she couldn’t recognize the woman in the last one.
Sitting at the table, she watched him print fresh copies of the ENTRY PROTOCOL “in case we lose one.” He whistled, content, loving her in the only language of love he knew. Evelyn traced a box with her finger and wondered when love had become a queue you couldn’t skip.