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So he orders several pizzas. It's the easiest, and he could add on pasta to that. He used to run a pastashop; this wouldn't be too hard.Neo goes around the place once more and still doesn't find a computer. He starts looking slightlyagitated.Hanging around their presence continues to feel uncomfortably surreal; somehow it's much morebearable when it's just him and one of them. There is something about watching them interact with eachother that makes him uneasy, and somehow it makes them seem less real, like mere automatonsprogrammed by him with certain characteristics and modes of thought.But when he is alone with just one of them, they seem completely human; which unnerves him in atotally different way.He wonders what it feels like from their point of view – in relation to him, in relation to each other...And, with a sinking feeling, he remembers Griffin, still locked up, and hopes that he will be okay."Are you looking for something?" he asks.Neo gives a start. "...Yeah. A computer.""I don't have one."Neo shifts uncomfortably. "I know. You told me. But..."Neo looks fitfully around in a desperate sort of way, as though it would make a computer somehowmaterialise out of nowhere. Houses had computers. It was a fact of life, he thought. Which meant thatthere had to be one here somewhere, just... hiding or something.The television comes on in the background playing some inane detergent advertisement.A yell and splash informs them that Tommy and Jesse just pushed Heaver into the newly-discoveredswimming pool.**The deafening silence is starting to get to him, and Griffin finally forces himself to accept that the door isnot going to open any time soon.But he stays calm; looks at the chainsaw, considers his options. He's probably managed to guilt-tripReeves. He hopes he has, with a sudden twinge of anger, but then he tries to suppress the hurt ofbeing unloved by his creator, because there's no point in dwelling on that.He runs his free hand slowly along the serrated edge of the chainsaw and feels the mild pricks of pain,driving home his mortality; tries to imagine powering it up and directing it through the flesh and bone ofhis right wrist, and the thought brings his left hand to a stop. He retrieves his hand from the chainsawand holds it close.Griffin slides lower down the side of the bed and leans against it, eyes shut. The sound of his quietbreaths fills his mind.He wonders what the others are doing. He wonders if he can tell; if he can sense them; if they areconnected in more ways than they think; but he gets nothing, and so he gives up trying.He tries to sleep. Perhaps when he wakes, things will be different.Someone has to come eventually.