“You. I know you,” Joe says to the visage that has appeared in the void.

Walt looks confused. “Can’t say the same, man.”

“You just said so. You said you told me so. And… and you gave me a—a—you said it was a map. You told me to carry it. I have it.” Joe digs into his back pocket and gets out his wallet. In it, he has folded and kept the poem along with a letter to the Brooklyn Bridge. He unfolds the poem and, shaking from nerves, hands it over to Walt. Walt looks at Joe, not puzzled but curious—no one has spoken to him in a long time. But he takes the letter after the pause and holds it up to the lantern and reads the poem. He nods approvingly, “Not bad, not bad.” He hands it back to Joe, “Nice one. That’s a good poem.”

Joe is still more confused. “I didn’t write it. You did.”

“No, man. That’s not my handwriting.”

“It—Yes it is—it’s… what in the world are you doing down here anyway? I mean, how’d you even get here?” Joe looks for the entrance to the sinkhole but can see nothing. The light from the lantern reveals some of Beatrice, now mostly buried in rubble.

Walt shrugs, “Not sure what you mean.” He looks around. “I’ve always been here. Been here as long as I can remember.”

“Do you know how to get out of here?”

“Out?”

“Yeah, I mean, the rock slide, the sinkhole… I think we might be trapped.”

Walt ponders this for a while. “No. We can go that way.” He points in to a deeper part of the cavern. “But there’s no way out.”

Joe just stares blankly. “You really don’t know who I am? I gave you five dollars—and—and you told me that in the future I would come down here.”

“Sorry,” Walt says, genuinely apologetic. “Wish I’d told you how not to.”

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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