Tanu I ran out of the room, similar to I’d never smoked a cigarette, similar to I ran with Tanu on Barn Night, across the quarter’s circle to his room, yet Tanu was gone. His bunk was exposed vinyl; his work area vacant; a blueprint of residue where his sound system had been. He was gone, and I didn’t have the opportunity to mention to him what I had quite recently understood: that I pardoned him, and that she excused us, and that we needed to pardon to make due in the maze. There were such large numbers of us who might need to live with things done and things left fixed that day. Things that didn’t go right, things that appeared to be OK at the time since we were unable to see what’s to come. If no one but we could see the unending series of outcomes that outcome from our littlest activities. In any case, we can’t know better until knowing better is futile. What’s more, as I strolled back to give Tanu’s note to the Colonel, I saw that I could never know. I could never realize her alright to know her considerations in those last minutes, could never know whether she left us deliberately. However, the not-knowing would not hold me back from mindful, and I would consistently cherish Rosy Young, my slanted neighbor, with all my warped heart. I returned to Room 43, yet the Colonel wasn’t home yet, so I left the note on the top bunk and took a seat at the PC, and I worked right out of the maze: Before I arrived, I thought for quite a while frame that the exit from the maze was to imagine that it didn’t exist, to construct a little, independent world in a back corner of the perpetual labyrinth and to imagine that I was not lost, yet home. However, that solitary prompted a desolate life joined simply by the final expressions of the generally dead, so I came here searching for a Great Perhaps, for genuine companions and a more-than-minor life. And afterward, I messed up and the Colonel messed up and Tanu messed up and she got past us. What’s more, there’s no glossing over it: She merited better companions. At the point when she messed up, each one of those years prior, a tiny bit of young lady panicked into loss of motion, she fell into the mystery of herself. Furthermore, I might have done that, however, I saw where it drove for her. So I trust in the Great Perhaps, and I can put stock in it disregarding having lost her. Since I will fail to remember her, yes. That which met up will self-destruct indistinctly gradually, and I will neglect, yet she will pardon my neglecting, similarly as I excuse her for failing to remember me and the Colonel and everybody except herself and her mother in those last minutes she spent personally. I realize since she excuses me for being moronic and frightened and doing the imbecilic and terrifying thing. I realize she pardons me, similarly as her mom excuses her. Furthermore, here’s how I know: I thought from the outset that she was simply dead. Just dimness. Simply a body being eaten by bugs. I considered her a ton like that, like something’s feast. What was her—green eyes, a large portion of a smile, the delicate bends of her legs—would before long be nothing, simply the bones I won’t ever see. I considered the lethargic cycle of turning out to be bone and afterward fossil and afterward coal that will, in a large number of years, be mined by people of things to come, and how they would warm their homes with her, and afterward, she would be smoke surging out of a smokestack, covering the environment.