His apartment was a chaotic mess—hell, he was a mess himself. Cables dangled from the ceiling, drawings of crossed eyes plastered the walls and scribbled papers with equations and warnings littered the floor.

But he didn't want to think about any of this.

Fiddleford slumped in a corner, draped in that filthy red robe—had he gone out last night to help people forget? He couldn’t recall. And the memory gun rested heavily in his hand. Did I just use it?

He didn't remember.