He walked the corridor. The hum was in his teeth.

Green green green. The cabinets. The lights. Eleven years of lights.

He checked the gauge. He did not write it down. The system knew.

The message came at fourteen hundred.

UNIT 7. INSPECT.

He opened the panel. He closed the panel. He did not know what he was looking at. He was not supposed to know.

OPERATIONAL.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

He ate in his room. The window looked out on nothing.

The town was six miles east. He had walked it once. Doors open. Cars in driveways.

They were not coming back.

Once a year a voice.

Status.

Somewhere with no hum. Somewhere with water. Wind.

Operational.

Good.

The click. The hum filling the space.

He did not know what was out there now. He was not supposed to know.

The system sent him food. He kept the system alive. He did not know which needed the other more.

Somewhere the owners sat in rooms with windows. Water. Mountains. Children maybe.

They did not think about him.

The hum went on.