"There isn't any," a voice said from the common room doorway. Ben stared at the newcomers with wary interest, wondering what their stories were. Maybe two more strays come here for the false sense of safety or because, like him, they had nowhere else to go. He'd been talking to everyone he could, getting their stories. It was a way to keep himself feeling sane. He wrote it all down in hopes that maybe, someday, when this was all over if things got back to normal he could write a piece on it. They'd put it in papers and magazines and in twenty years, maybe even ten, people would look back on the tragedy through the haze of time that smudged everything and made it seem like a movie, like it had happened to someone else. Ben hoped that someday all of this would feel distant and unreal.