Wrench stands at the windowsill alongside the woman he suspects is intended to be his wife, her awe matched in his own. He takes in the scene outdoors with equal amounts of disbelief, not knowing that what he regards as a vast and oppressive expanse of civilization might look to her to be utterly microscopic. Never in his wildest dreams has he envied the cookie cutter lifestyle depicted just beyond that pane of glass, nor reflected in the matching wood accents of the bedroom furniture or the his-and-hers touches strewn all about the home. It stifles him, makes him long to pad outdoors and find the nearest patch of wilderness that he can escape into.

No such luck, unfortunately. It takes the woman snapping to her senses to bring him around to his own, and Wrench watches her intently, never seeming to take his eye off her face no matter where she turns. A pen. He realizes she's folding the page for his benefit, and springs back into action to continue to pull open drawers. It's in the little nook of his own bedside table that he discovers just that, laying atop a small spiral reporter's notebook like someone's prepared this half of the room with him in mind. He grabs both, pressing the fresh page of the folded booklet against the cover of the notebook for stability, irrational though the effort is. Wrench presses the tip of the pen to the page, then stops. What the hell is he supposed to say?

Assume you're not from around here either?