But it wasn’t a game. The only thing that kept me from running away scared were my augments.
I knew that if the rotting bodies and bones I had to step over to reach this point could speak4, they’d tell me it was a fool’s errand.
Or simply get lost and die of hunger.
And the maze designers would document8 everything and start again.
But they had gotten tired of cleaning the maze. Every bone was a clue about what didn’t work before.
I made mental notes of my own, avoided the traps, and inched my way closer to the reward.9