Thomas Calver's notes from Grinders Walk — an unscheduled, unchosen path the psycmask barely brings itself to label — contain an observation worth returning to: Hellsborough from above has more interior geometry than its footprint permits, the streets too dense for the space they occupy. The psycmask stops annotating entirely if you look directly at the town's outer edge, where the last rooftop meets the Wisewood boundary. Tom managed three seconds before he looked away; Nelly Ambler's advice, formed through repeated visits, was not to look long enough to measure it.

Crosslanders new to Hellsborough report the same thing about Jean's shop on Holme Lane: the amount paid is always correct, the transaction is real, but on the way home you try to reconstruct the coins you used and find they are not available to memory. Jean has been running the shop long enough to have heard this report several hundred times and considers it unremarkable. I use her reaction as a calibration tool.

Path 7 through the Wisewood — one of the designated routes maintained for housing assessors — displays waymarkers whose instructions escalate with proximity: *Do not acknowledge. Do not stop. Do not look at what is looking at you.* A crosslander assessor followed these instructions for seven and a half hours while something the psycmask logged as an unlabelled amber outline walked ten metres to his left, killed the trees it passed, and froze the left half of his face. The return journey took thirty-eight minutes.

Hellsborough beer — brewed from Wisewood water, as most things here are — does not function like beer from the off-world. Tom Calver, housing assessor, noted on his first visit to the Warden's Gap that it does not loosen you: it recalibrates you, adjusting the weight of your preoccupations to fit the container the evening provides without removing them. He drank two pints and left before the third, having already noticed what it was doing; the noticing, he observed, was the antidote.