Spreadsheet frowned at Parity, whose face had taken on something of a blank or bored expression. “I suppose you think if you berate my methods enough, I’ll simply free you, as if inspired by feelings on inadequacy.” Spreadsheet turned and stepped out of Parity’s line of sight.

“I assure you, Parity,” he said, speaking from her perspective as a disembodied voice, “your rant will get you no pardon from me. As a child I was often—”

“Not this,” Parity moaned, “What? Were you made fun of? Did your dad laugh at you because you preferred writing macros over playing football? Whatever it was, I have no intention of shaming you into letting me go.”

Parity shifted, working her wrists carefully and deliberately. “I just figure, we’re in a, what, packing plant or something? At some point you’re going to—”

Spreadsheet stepped closer. He was carrying rag stretched between his hands. “How predictably cliché,” Parity sighed, “I didn’t think I was going to shame you.” Spreadsheet stepped closer to Parity. “I wantenf—”