When he spoke it sounded like it was through a cardboard tube. I'm not entirely here, he complained. Well, you do sound far away, they said. He tried yelling, for effect, as an experiment. They chuckled. See? he said. The captain calmly suggested this could be a real problem. What if this happens to all of us, he asked, sternly. Of course, they said, apologetically. It's some time-space distortion perhaps, he said. They tittered when he said it, so far away. What else do you feel? they asked. As if I could drown, he said, but I'm not afraid. I feel like life is a book whose pages I'm flipping through too quickly, afraid of reaching the end, but also of the beginning, he said. There is a reflection of me that I don't understand, and I know I never will, he said. These are very specific symptoms, they replied. If you put me into the chamber be sure to put both of me, he said. Both of you? they asked. I am an echo, from two places, from both of me. I am a consequence, he said. A consequence of what? they asked. Decay. Fearlessness. He said.