There is a room above the floor where the feelings cool into footage, and a woman sits in it because she can no longer stand where they are still warm. She builds the conditions for strangers to break open on schedule, and she is the best there has ever been at it, and she has not felt the thing she manufactures in twenty years. Then someone walks in who can do it cold — who finds the buried thing in anyone, every time, the short way — and the machine acquires a second operator better than its first. What gets made on that floor stops failing, which is how she learns it has stopped being real. The only door left into her own interior is the one marked damage, and it is about to be opened from the inside.
