text: > look around
  Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt)
  The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south.
  
  A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road.
  
  A man stands near the barricade. He appears to be contemplating the contents of the dig site.
  
  A grad student works fastidiously on the fossilized bones in the pit.
  
  An ethereal trolley stop sign reads Orange Line -- Constabulary Road.
  
  > look at the bench
  A wooden bench bearing the inscription "This room is dedicated to the memory of Christine Cunningham (Ataraxy)."
  
  > Go northeast
  Hillside Path (Jack Welch)
  [ HINT: you can type "hints" for a hint for this location ]
  
  You follow a mud-trampled trail, which leads you blindly through a narrow trench bordered by overgrown brambles and shrubs, once smartly trimmed hedges around the Cragne property. The intimidating thorn-studded walls arch over you, all but obscuring the grey marbled clouds overhead.
  
  Turning the corner, you feel the ground beneath your feet suddenly harden. Although the shrubs recede behind you, the shadows deepen as you walk towards a clearing set into the hillside, surrounded on three sides by black cliffs.
  
  As you advance, sound is conspicuous by its absence -- gone is the squealchy sound of the muddy trail, the cracking of branches underfoot, and the rustling sounds of trailside wilderness. You are left contemplating the rocky bowl cut into the cliffside, a natural amphitheater.
  
  Or is it? Could this hollow have been worked by the hand of man in some earlier time? How much labor and what dedication would have been required in an earlier era to work the ageless Vermont granite into such a perfect shape?
  
  Your eye is drawn to a raised, brown mass centered before the cliffs; you muse that if the rockface formed a parabola, that mass would be at its focus, like an altar in a cathedral. The earthen lump grows in your vision and you realize that you must have walked towards it, lost in your thoughts. It has already been a long day, and it has barely started.
  
  Up close, you realize that it is not an earthen mound, but a pile of long, rusted iron railway tracks. Tons of them. Stacked taller than you in this remote corner of the estate and forgotten.
  
  You move your head in just the right way and light glances sharply off a glistening corner of track, momentarily blinding you. You rub your eyes reflexively, and when your vision clears, you realize with some embarrassment that a woman sits not even an arm's length from your face atop the pile.
  
  Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast.
  
  You can see a bonnet-clad woman here.
  
  The woman looks into the distance and sighs.
  
  > talk to woman
  "Oh, so you can see me, then, can you?" she asks, taking a step back.
  
  "Can you see me?"
  
  > say yes
  You can only do that to something animate.
  
  > say yes to the woman
  "How wonderfull!" She sits on a rail jutting out of the pile and pats the space beside her. "Tis a frightfull long Tymme since I did haf the Oppourtunity to speake with One graced with the Seight -- no
  Crâne, then you, but one among our Number. Do then, please,
  speake to me about yourself."
  
  She pauses for a breath, "Oh, but first, where are my Manners? I do beg your Pardon most sincerely: I am called Christabell."
  
  She looks at you with anticipation.
  
  [ HINT: you can ask or sometimes tell people about various
  subjects ]
  
  > ask about Manor
  Christabell says, "I have wondered that myself."
  
  > ask about the sight
  You consider whether it is prudent to kick off a conversation with this stranger, secluded as you are in this deathly quiet corner of the Cragne Property, but your gregarious nature carries the day.
  You reason that she's only a stranger because you haven't met her yet, and considering that you don't really know anything about
  Peter's family, maybe it is time to start reaching out a little
  more. You sit down next to the woman, and she rewards you with a smile and rapt attention.
  
  [ HINT: For short, say "a subject" or "t subject" to
  ASK/TELL about a subject ]
  
  The term is not familiar to you, so instead you ask, "I never heard of the 'sight' -- what is it?"
  
  Christabell appears surprised, but patiently replies, "It is a
  Gifte, which I now presume to be hitherto unknown to You. Let
  us not make Haste with what does follow, for Experience has shewn me that Understanding may train behind my Wordes." She pauses for emphasis, "The spektral Seight is the Ability of somme
  so-favoured by God's New Grace to see Spirits as
  Substance. Thus, you are able to see and converse with me."
  
  "Spirits?" You think to yourself that this conversation just
  jumped the shark.
  
  You shake your head trying to put her words into some order that makes more sense. "Back the truck up, honey. Spirits? As in
  ghosts?"
  
  "Not precisely, but on Balance more Reight than Wronge -- and whilst you are styll of Mynd to listen, I should add that the Gifte is restricted a lineage, which does fill me with Curiosity." She
  looks appraisingly at your face, taking in the features.
  
  "Wait. Ghosts?" you cannot get past the word. You brain
  doesn't seem to be working very well just now.
  
  "Indeed." She places a hand on your shoulder, but rather than the reassuring pressure and warmth of human touch, you feel a wave of coldness wash over you. "Tarry a Moment," Christabell instructs, "until your Mind ceases its Fievre, lest it berne through the
  Knotte of reason and unravell you."
  
  > About yourself
  This little weekend getaway with Peter has done you some good. So relaxing.
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  some yellowed newspapers
  loose bricks
  a rusty piece of metal
  an employee ID card
  a shard of shattered carapace
  a soggy tome
  a long hooked pole
  a grimy rock
  a dead battery
  a moldy, waterlogged journal
  a small, rectangular battery
  an antique locket (being worn and closed)
  The Dollmaker's Journal
  a repaired page
  a trolley schedule
  a trolley pass (being worn)
  Twin Hearts Between the Planes
  a pamphlet of home listings
  a Jansport backpack (being worn and open)
  a hidden pocket (open but empty)
  a key pocket (open but empty)
  a book pocket (open)
  a postcard of Big Ben
  the diary of Phyllis Cragne
  The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three
  a side pocket (closed)
  a trash pocket (open but empty)
  a backpack features guide
  a book list
  Peter's jacket
  a faint chill (haunting you)
  a cast iron spire
  a waterproof flashlight
  a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask)
  a pull-string doll
  a glass jar containing an insect
  a half-full styrofoam coffee cup
  a familiar gold wristwatch
  a brass winding key
  
  > ask about the ghosts
  You rub your temples to dispel the growing headache. "Ghost,
  spirit -- seems like six of one, half a dozen of the other."
  
  "Equateth not these Quantities within the Newe Mathimaticks?"
  
  "Huh? Oh, yes. I suppose. But that's my point -- I say ghost,
  you say spirit, to-may-to, to-mah-to, what's the difference?"
  
  "I do see whence your Confusion proceeds. Before my own Deathe,
  I would not have quibbled, but nowe the Difference is made Manifest. Simply put -- and must needes simply prai you attend my Wordes with do Conviction: Ghosts be not real, but Confabulaycion onely; the
  Sorte told to afrayten Childeren and enjoin theyre Obedience. Any One who maketh the Claym of having one caught Seight, I say is a
  lying Dog and owt Penance gainst such Sinne."
  
  "So, ghosts fake, spirits real -- is that the gist?"
  
  "You have shivvered the very Shaft of mei Arguement with the whetted Arrow of Comprehencion."
  
  "I'll take that as a yes."
  
  > ask about Knotte of the reason
  "The Knotte of Reason is the fibre within our Being what doth
  together bind in a regular manner our Faculties of Ratiocination, the Wellspring of our Creativity, the Vital Forces which impart our Weal, the Tepid Vapors of our Emotions, and the Restraining Compass of Moral Direction," explains Christabell.
  
  Seeing your glazed expression, she continues, "The Knotte of
  Reason doth pull the Needful against tensions be they substantial
  and invisible. Onely with the Knotte remaining intackt can you
  rest lucid of Speech and Wit. Let not it yield lest your sanity flow out of your Heade like the Newe Moon Tiyd."
  
  Caught up in the conversation, the surrealism of your situation now lands with its full weight and you take a long breath.
  
  "My friend, wherefore doth your Countenance so cloud?"
  
  "I just realized how weird it is to be talking to a ghost."
  
  "A spirit."
  
  "Okay, a spirit," you concede. "Maybe all this hanging around
  with the Cragnes has rubbed off on me. Maybe I'm the one who
  has lost her marbles."
  
  "Nay, your Marbles be firmly within your Skull, and your Knotte of Reason still tightly woven."
  
  "Mark my words, Peter is going to have a field day when I tell
  him how my day has gone."
  
  "That I cannot mark, it being beyond my powers."
  
  > look at the coffee
  This is unusual. As you watch the swirls in your cup, they form a pair of perfectly shaped hearts that orbit the cup, maintaining a steady distance from each other.
  
  You remember that twin objects like this mean you are split between two intricately entangled destinies, and that at any given moment, one of them will be the right place for you to be, but the coffee can't tell which. Way to drop the ball there, coffee.
  
  > ask about the new grace
  Christabell replies, "Has Worde of Mattanit's Third
  Covenant not reached All even in these late Days? Why, it is by
  HIS New Grace that many Myrickles are accomplished, the dead browt to life, the Globe delievered to its righteous End."
  
  > ask about Mattanit
  "Who," you begin, "or what is Mattanit"Christabell passes her hand five times in front of her heart and replies, "HE is the last Face of God, and blest are we for coming to know him."
  
  This seems to take some of her strength and she rests her hand on a rail, "I long to say moor, but 'tis so very draining...  I haf not such moor straynthe within mee."
  
  > ask about Christabell
  "I think you may be the only Christabell that I know," you say.
  
  "In truth? This does surprize me greatly, for in mei Youth it
  was a most common Appellation. There were... let me render the Account," Christabell counts on her fingers, "four of us in the Whole of the Towne. Contrarywise, "til this Day I had met ne'er a
  Naomi, thow the Name be familiar, being fownde in the Booke of Ruth."
  
  > ask about Youth
  "So," you begin, "what was your childhood like?"
  
  Pleased to be the center of attention, Christabell reminisces, "My early Youth I did spent in Engeland, Mother's youngest Daughter, so was coddled. I saw little of Father in that time, him being all-waies at Worke in the Forges of one great Towne or an Other."
  
  "I did notice the accent," you add. "Are you originally from London?"
  
  "Nay, never yet Lundon; we did sayle from the Port of Bristoll and came we to the Towne of Lin.
  
  "Never heard of it."
  
  "No, even in that day it was a Hamlet, somewhat removed from larger Settlements. In later Dayes, I do believe it were better known as Saugus for the River that did nearby course. We were deliwered
  there by the very Hand of Providence, for Lin was blessed with a River, plentifull Bog Ironne, and no lack of Wood."
  
  "About when was this?" you ask.
  
  "That Providence delivered us to the Colonie of Massachusetts? That Date I dewe know'th by Hearte: It was the Year of the Lord Sixteen-Hundreds and Fourty-Four, and I was but a Gyrll of eleffen Years."
  
  "Sorry -- did you say 1644?"
  
  "Yes, and I did die in the Year of Our Lord Sixteen-Hundred and Fifty-Three; since whych I have existed as naught but a
  Spirit."
  
  > talk Death
  "Really?" says Christabell.
  
  > ask about Saugus
  "Tell me of Lin," you say.
  
  "In that Tymme, the Towne was barely establyshed, us being
  among the first to settle along the River where the Mill came to be built. The Ironworkes were already conceived of and Fowndacion
  layd when they did sent for my Father, he being versed deeply in the Arts of Forging and also much skilt in the Emplacement of Edifices for such Worke."
  
  Are we far from Lin?" you prompt.
  
  "Some many Miles, I do thynk, for we are Nowe ourselves in
  Vermont, but Lin found itselff within the Governance of
  the Massachusetts Colonie." Christabell looks to the distance
  and adds, "Not all of us did call it Lin -- my Mother and
  Systers -- we did know it rather for the Indian Name of the
  River whereby we were set: Saugus."
  
  > ask about Massachusetts
  She answers you factually, "You do speake of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, which was settled by the Company of the same Name. I do
  thynk you harbour some confusion between it and the Plymouth
  Colony, to hear you speake of it, and that many such Factes do
  stew about unproductively within your Brains, like Cud recently chewn within Cattel Tripes."
  
  arrive to the Towne of Lin, and though there were summe
  Commerce betwixt, I did find them a queer and standoffish Lott."
  
  > ask about Ironworkes
  "It was a Marvell of its Day. I have not in mei minds Eye a simple Forge nor even a Company of Smithies, but an entyre Factorie
  that did smelt the Earth's Ores into Pigs and thence crafte them to wrought Werkes putting to shame anything carried on the Sea to us. Even the Masters that did instructe upon a Tymme my Father, they did say howe fynne were his Pieces and I think they did harbour summe not little Jealousy thereby."
  
  "It sounds remarkable," you add.
  
  "It did make us Prowde, yes, but did become to an Undoing." Christabell casts her eyes to the ground, and for a moment, she seems less substantial -- you have the impression of looking straight through her towards the dark cliffs that frame this hollow. "No
  more need be sayed upon this dower Subjekt."
  
  > ask about the cliffs
  "They be nothing like any Marble Granite that I do know, first by their Colour, which is unnatural dark, but also by their Durabilitie. Summe Tymme ago, Men did come with their Tools up from the
  Crâne Manour, and did try for Dayes to saw and pierce the stony
  Walls of this Hollow, but theyr Tools dulled, they made not a Scratch upon the timeless Stone here. That crafted in an earlier Ayge cannot be rewrought by too soft Hand of modern Man."
  
  > ask about the lineage
  "Surely, you suspect -- your Eyes, your Fayce, your Carriage -- all about you I have seen in the Looking-glass. We are of a common Stock, you and I, whence stems your Spektral Seight."
  
  "Because we're both Cragnes?" you ask.
  
  "Nay, neither, I reckon. No Crâne Blood runs -- fynne, I allow,
  did run, for sayke of Correctness -- did run through my Veinnes. My surname is 'Burt', in case that catches notice. And if I do not mistake, you have not the Aspect of Fruite fallen from the gnarled Tree of the Crânes -- although I did once wot by Providence wot Happenstance, know a Crâne also, a certain Carol, of Our
  Lineage."
  
  "Am I a Cragne? No. I married one. Peter is a
  Cragne -- I just married in. We had blood tests and everything.
  Our kids won't have two heads. I'm sure he and I aren't related."
  
  "Tell me of your Ancestors," Cristabell asks.
  
  "Going back a generation on my father's side, he and his dad were carpenters in Lithuania and came to the US in 30s. He had a little shop in Hull..." Cristabell waves you on impatiently; clearly, that part of your ancestry does not excite her. "But on my mom's side -- my birth mom, that is, her family traces back to the UK. My cousin did a school report on our family tree, and I think we go back to the Bassetts on that side. Does that ring any bells?"
  
  "Like a Papist Belfry on the Newe Year."
  
  "..."
  
  Christabell clarifies, "My owne Mother was but one Generation remouved from Family Bassett. A wealthey Family, they did dwell not far a-way."
  
  > look at the coffee
  This is unexpected. As you watch the swirls in your cup, they form a pair of daggers that orbit the cup, maintaining a steady distance from each other.
  
  You remember that twin objects like this mean you are split between two intricately entangled destinies, and that at any given moment, one of them will be the right place for you to be, but the coffee can't tell which. Way to drop the ball there, coffee.
  
  > look
  Hillside Path (Jack Welch)
  You are in a hillside hollow flanked on three sides by sheer granite cliffs and on the other by gnarled vegetation.
  
  Three trailheads hold out some chance of respite: north, southwest, and southeast.
  
  You can see Christabell here.
  
  > ask about Carol
  "Carol. Yes, what to say of Carol..." Cristabell stares
  into the sky, collecting her thoughts. "I do not Knowe. In different Tymmes, she was many things to mee, and I to her, being related not onely of Lineage but of Minde. She lived not far from here in
  Manse of Family Crâne."
  
  "Then you knew her in your youth?"
  
  "No, not mine but hers -- I had long before met my owne Deathe.
  In her Youth, she would oft come here and suffer my
  Companionship; less so, as she did flower to Womanhood, though. I do sincerely avow committing every Efforts and Care to her goode and proper Upbringing and polite Formation, but she was remarkable headstrong and sharp of wit like broken Glass. Even with my
  Mark set upon her, she did suffer the Corruption and Poyson of
  that House. I urged her to remain away, but every Summer it did call her back to itself."
  
  "Is she still there? In the mansion?"
  
  "I need so beleeve, though I have not seen her since her
  Deathe."
  
  > ask about Death
  Christabell says, "I wish I knew."
  
  > ask about deathe
  Christabell says, "Good question."
  
  > ask about Mark
  "A Mark is a special Touch whereby a Spirit does grant
  Favour to One still a-live by laying upon the One so-gift'd
  summe small Splintre of their own Essence. Those haffing the
  seight will reckognise it a brawnish Stain upon the marked, but
  Others will not it ken."
  
  "Sounds like an evil cow brand for the soul."
  
  "The Marking is neither maleficent nor beneficent, it being onely a Reflection of Spirit from whence it doth floe."
  
  "Why would anyone agree to be marked, though?"
  
  "In a sense, it be a Blessing for it doth warde the One a-gainst depredations of inimickal Spirits and by its Presence exclude unwillful Markings thereafter. More of a Pointe, such Magickal Capacities as possessed the Donor are bestown thereby for exercise upon the Will of the Begift'd."
  
  > ask about the gift
  "You mentioned 'a Gift' -- that's an odd turn of phrase. A gift
  from whom?"
  
  "Yes, One of the many gifts of Mattanit, one of the ways
  his new Grace doth manifest."
  
  > ask about new Grace
  According to Christabell, it is a gift that Mattanit bestowed upon his worshippers.
  
  > ask about Youth
  Christabell is only too happy to reminisce about her youth, going on about herself, her mother and father at length.
  
  > ask about the iron
  (the cast iron spire)
  Christabell says, "I don't have a good answer for that one."
  
  > ask about the heap
  Christabell says, "I wish I knew."
  
  > ask about the Ironne
  "For as long as this great Pyle of Ironne Metall has
  been here, so have I."
  
  > ask about Vermont
  Christabell replies, "There be not much to say on my Part,
  Vermont, being far from where I spent my youth. In
  truth, I never set my Foote here all the Tymme I did live, but onely did come tardily some many Yeares after my own Deathe, and that
  not of my Volition. Thus, there is little I can add of local flavour beyond the Explorations that you may set upon your own Selffe."
  
  > take the iron
  (the cast iron spire)
  You already have that.
  
  > put the spire in side pocket
  You unzip the side pocket, deposit the cast iron spire, then zip the side pocket back up again.
  
  > take the iron
  That's hardly portable.
  
  > examine it
  Long shafts of weathered, rusted iron, jutting in all directions for a great mound as if dropped like puny sticks from the sky.
  
  > ask about the pile
  "It has been here a long, long time," says Christabell.
  
  > tell about diary
  "Interesting," says Christabell.
  
  > tell about Peter
  "As for Peter, my husband, what you see is what you get: he's a lovable teddy bear."
  
  "Is he?"
  
  "Yes, but a bit of a workaholic. He puts in a full day, but then he's up all night with the books. I've never seen anyone pour their soul out so much over a job."
  
  "Into what Sorte of Bookes does he pour his Soul?"
  
  "At this point, he's management, so mostly going over audit summaries. In truth, he'd rather do the bean counting himself. Crunching numbers floats his boat."
  
  "I am amazed to hear such Newes as you have to tell; the Worlde is greatly changed since my Youth."
  
  > tell about Phyllis
  "Uh-huh," says Christabell.
  
  > talk peter
  You ramble on for a while about your husband, Peter.
  
  > tell about yourself
  "Well," you begin, "I am Naomi, and you probably already know my husband, Peter -- Peter Cragne."
  
  Christabell shakes her head, "A Crâne? No, I have not the Pleasure of his Acquitenance, or at least not yet. But I am sure there are many Hereabouts unknown to me of Late."
  
  "Yes, he's a little introverted, so I'm not surprised," you continue. "In fact, while he's met my entire family, I have not even met his parents -- yet. No pressure there, right?"
  
  "Assuredly, so."
  
  "We took this opportunity to shoot up to Vermont and I figure
  we'll do the family thing and while we're at it a little touring around: Ben & Jerry's, some covered bridges, get a bucket of maple syrup -- or however they sell it -- and check out some of the mountains. Two birds with one stone!"
  
  "Two with but a single Stoning? Indeed, what you have laid out sounds a fruitful Application of your Labours."
  
  > talk vermont
  "Geography isn't my strong suit," you admit. "I think I was supposed to have gone to Vermont when I was a kid, but the ski trip got canceled." Looking around, you remark, "I'm not sure Vermont quite agrees with me. The weather seems kind of gray here."
  
  "More like that be a Reflexion of the Locale."
  
  > go to the southwest
  Cristabell calls after you, "I do thank you for diverting summe Houres with mee in Discourse sweet. I do entreat you return upon your Convenience that we may again share some Werdes."
  
  Constabulary Road (Harkness Munt)
  The road phases into little more than a wide dirt track winding from the west towards the edge of town to the northeast. A paved walk wanders through an iron gate which interrupts a high stone wall looming to the north. A memorial bench sits just outside its shadow. A tangled rampart of trees and dense undergrowth obstructs passage to the south.
  
  A barricade spans the road to the northeast, and beyond it a large shallow pit is being excavated. If you're careful, you could skirt the edges of the pit and continue along the northeast road.
  
  A man stands near the barricade. He appears to be contemplating the contents of the dig site.
  
  A grad student works fastidiously on the fossilized bones in the pit.
  
  A noncorporeal trolley stop sign reads Orange Line -- Constabulary Road.
  
  > examine gate
  A set of spiked wrought iron bars towers across an opening in the north wall. On a section of the wall adjacent to the gate rests a large bronze plaque.
  
  > examine the plaque
  A bronze plaque which reads "Municipal Jail".
  
  > Go north
  The closed gate bars your way.
  
  > open gate
  At the slightest brush of your fingertips, the gates slowly begin to creak open.
  
  > go to the north
  Backwater Jail (Marshal Tenner Winter)
  The air is stale in this wood-paneled sheriff's office. You feel as if you've stepped back in time maybe twenty years as the office furnishings in here are simple and utilitarian. A desk, generic in style but wide enough for an outdated-looking computer, is near the window. A swivel chair is behind it and a wooden visitors chair is on the other side. Despite the meager light that creeps in the window, there's still a bleak glow from fluorescent bulbs overhead. Other furnishings include a file cabinet and, what appears to be, a locker that was literally ripped out of a high school and placed against the wall in here.
  
  Otherwise, a cheap door with a unisex bathroom sign on it is to the west and a secure door, obviously the lock-up, is to the north. The exit is south.
  
  On the desk is a clipboard holding some paperwork.
  
  > About yourself
  As good-looking as ever.
  
  You bear the trauma of a woman who has been eye to eye with an eburnean pond kraken.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  some yellowed newspapers
  loose bricks
  a rusty piece of metal
  an employee ID card
  a shard of shattered carapace
  a soggy tome
  a long hooked pole
  a grimy rock
  a dead battery
  a moldy, waterlogged journal
  a small, rectangular battery
  an antique locket (being worn and closed)
  The Dollmaker's Journal
  a repaired page
  a trolley schedule
  a trolley pass (being worn)
  Twin Hearts Between the Planes
  a pamphlet of home listings
  a Jansport backpack (being worn and open)
  a hidden pocket (open but empty)
  a key pocket (open but empty)
  a book pocket (open)
  a postcard of Big Ben
  the diary of Phyllis Cragne
  The Modern Girl's Divination Handbook -- Volume Three
  a side pocket (closed)
  a trash pocket (open but empty)
  a backpack features guide
  a book list
  Peter's jacket
  a faint chill (haunting you)
  a waterproof flashlight
  a giant milkweed leaf (being worn as a mask)
  a pull-string doll
  a glass jar containing an insect
  a half-full styrofoam coffee cup
  a familiar gold wristwatch
  a brass winding key
  
  > examine the coffee
  The clouds in your cup form a cronut. Images of strange hybrids mean that some challenges in your current environment can be defeated with what you already possess, while others will require outside assistance.
  
  > examine paperwork
  This is a list of the day's arrestees. The date is a week old with no further entries beyond it. The entries are:
  Jeff Moore - public intoxication.
  Alana Cook - possession of cannabis.
  Matthew Grobe - discharging a firearm within city limits.
  Tony Overton - disorderly conduct.
  Robert Morales - reckless driving.
  Eugene Kunkle - petty theft.
  
  > examine computer
  It looks bulky, even by today's standards, and on it is a faded decal stating, "...ateway". The nicotine-stained monitor sitting before it might bear a closer look.
  
  > look at the monitor
  This bulky monitor, roughly the size of a child's coffin, looks heavy and grimey. Whoever worked with this computer and monitor must've smoked like a Turkish tobacco caliph. The whole thing is sticky with a jaundiced film and the screen is covered with smudged fingerprints.
  
  On the nicotine-stained monitor is a Post-it® note.
  
  > look at the post-the it
  Keep the evidence key in the last arrestee's file. It's usually
  the active file.
  -Sarge.
  
  > examine the file cabinet
  It's a wide, cream-colored file cabinet. It's about waist-high.
  
  > open the cabinet
  You open the file cabinet, revealing the Kunkle file and some disorganized files.
  
  That's already open.
  
  > examine the kunkle file
  A meager file; the arrest report gives few real details of anything. Apparently this Eugene Kunkle stole a library book. Otherwise, nothing useful can be gleaned from the paperwork within.
  
  In the Kunkle file is an aluminum key.
  
  > take the key
  (the aluminum key)
  Taken.