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bathroom.
        "All right," Henry said when he got there. "But only because Henry's cold, and owner's not here." Once he was inside the bathroom, he barricaded the door to the hallway with a laundry hamper and Kevin's antique medical scale. "To keep away the spiders," he said, although of course a mere blocked doorway wouldn't have kept the bots out if the house had wanted them there. It could always have dispatched them through the ventilation ducts. Even had the house been able to use its voice, however, it would have said nothing of this to Henry. "House, don't look at Henry," Henry said, and squeezed his eyes shut and began to undress.
        The house could not have obeyed this command even had it wanted to. It was designed to see everything within its perimeters; even when Kevin shut off its voice, he had never closed its eyes, the minuscule cameras scattered strategically in each room. The house saw all the objects it enclosed, and saw them whole; it had no blind spots. And so it saw that Henry wore many more layers of clothing than Kevin ever had: two T-shirts full of holes over three sport shirts missing most of their buttons, all of this under gray pinstripe vest, a blue pullover sweater with red reindeer on it, and an orange parka shedding its filling through rips in the nylon shell. Henry's shoes, had they been new, would have resembled Kevin's hiking boots, but the leather on these had aged and cracked, peeling upward from the flapping soles. Twine served as a shoelace on one boot, a piece of twisted wire on the other. He wore old summer trousers gaping at the knees, two pairs of boxer shorts, a pair of thermal underwear that extended only midway down his calves, and four pairs of socks.
        Underneath all that clothing, Henry was much skinnier than Kevin, and far older. He was bald and wrinkled and pale, and his eyes ran with something too thick to be tears. There were sores on his legs, scabs on his back, a taut white scar across his stomach. His hands shook, and the house thought he must be cold without all his clothing, so it started running as hot a shower as Kevin had ever been able to stand.
        "No," Henry said when the house turned on the water. "That's like rain! Henry wants a bath. And Henry told House not to look! House is cheating. Henry would have said when he was ready."
        The house dutifully ran a bath. Henry used almost all of a new bar of soap and left the tub encrusted with filth, but afterward he started putting his old socks back on. When the house opened the second bathroom door, the one that led to Kevin's bedroom—the one Henry hadn't seen and therefore hadn't barricaded—Henry whimpered and tried to cover himself with a towel. "Somebody there?" he asked. "Somebody, or spiders, or something?"
        The house flashed the light on Kevin's dresser twice, and after a pause kept flashing it. There were clean socks in Kevin's dresser.
        Henry shook his head and resumed his hurried dressing. "Somebody's bed," he said. "Somebody's clothing! Food for cats is different. House will get in trouble, and so will Henry. Henry's leaving now."
        The house flashed the bathroom light twice. Henry couldn't leave; it was still raining, and the wind was stronger than ever. Henry would be in danger if he left. "House," Henry said, his voice muffled through the T-shirt he was pulling over his head. "Henry can't stay here. House isn't Henry's."
        The house waited for Henry's head to emerge through the neck of the T-shirt, and then flashed the light once. "No," Henry said, frowning. "That's not right. House belongs to someone else. Henry has to leave."
        The house flashed the light twice, and Henry shuddered. He finished getting dressed, throwing on his ragtag layers, and then said, "House, tell Henry why. Talk, House. Write with the spiders, even."
        Kevin had told the house never to speak to anyone but him; he said most people didn't like talking