Katurian's features visibly softened as he listened to Andy speak. Censorship. The play's the thing. Fiction is the thing. He was almost smiling, really, as he stepped back to sit on the edge of his bed, easing himself down into the soft, clean fabric.

And then his hand nudged against his copy of 1984, that worn, second-handed book jacket. He watched the eye on the cover and it watched him, scratching a hole in his body and pulling out its soul.

"That man who sent you to me," he started slowly, looking up. "Did he tell you to say that?"