Caleb North (4:19)

The stove runs around the clock this time of year. You feed it slow and steady, two pieces at a time, stacked crossways so the air moves clean. The iron ticks when it settles, a quiet, patient sound that reminds you something in this place still works the way it should. Outside, there's no color left in the world. The light went with the sun two weeks ago. The last day of daylight passed the way it always does. Coffee in tin cups, a few pictures, people pretending they don't feel the weight coming. Then the lamps come out, the diesel heaters start their coughing, and the town shrank down to a handful of yellow windows in a sea of black. The long dark isn't an event here, it's a season. I'd barely call what we have a town. It's just a row of weather worn buildings strung along a road, a store, a post shed, a one room clinic, the old church that never quite stops smelling like wet wood. Maybe 300 people live here, if you count the ones who talk more to dogs than to neighbors. Nobody moves here. You're either born to it or you owe it something. I fix things. That's my share. Heaters, generators, door frames swollen with ice. Anything that needs a hand steadier than the cold usually allows. Daily I make rounds down by the airstrip, check the fuel heaters, scrape the vents, tap the pipes with a wrench to listen for a tone that says they're going solid. After a while you stop using gauges. Metal has a language all its own. That's what the dark teaches you. Not fear attention. Every noise carries weight. A nail shifting in the siding, the sigh of snow sliding off the roof. Even silence has a texture you start to recognize. The first week without sun is easy. The body still believes in mornings. People keep to their routines. Cards at the store, radio songs over supper, children running the short strip of street between houses with their lamps swinging. The dark still feels like something you can wait out. After that. Time flattens. Days blur together. The air grows so still it starts to feel like pressure, like you're living under a lid. The cold doesn't stab anymore. It settles in and hums under the skin. You begin to notice smaller things. The creak of your coat when you move, the sound of Your own breathing. Sometimes it's enough to make you stop what you're doing and just listen, wondering if something is wrong or if that's what it always sounds like. The dogs were the first to notice something was wrong. They stopped eating for a day or two, just stared at their food and nosed it once before lying back down. When you've been out here long enough, you start taking their mood seriously. The sled teams know weather before it happens, no danger before they see it. Lately they've been restless, pacing. Even when the winds come, they keep looking north, ears high, tails tucked, like something's standing out there, just past the treeline. A smell has started spreading through the town. Faint, metallic, like iron dust on your tongue. You catch it when the door first opens, gone by the time you look around for what's causing it. Some folks say it's the heaters running rich. Others say it's nothing. I've worked with engines my whole life. I know what burning fuel smells like. It isn't that it's colder, thinner, A smell that seems to sit behind everything else. Old men at the store said the season came early. That's how they talk about bad years, like this place has it out for us. Madsen, who lives across the lane, swore the aurora used to keep to its place in the sky. Now it hangs lower, whispering at the treetops. I told him it's just the clouds playing tricks on the light. There's a rhythm to living here, one the dark usually can't touch. Wake, work, eat, sleep, keep the heat steady, keep your hands busy. But lately that rhythm's been drifting the way a belt slips on a pulley. The dogs bark for no reason, then go silent altogether, heads tilted, listening. Even the snow sounds different underfoot. Less of a crunch, more of a sigh. I walk my route anyway. The airstrip, the tanks, the shed. I tell myself that as long as the engines run and the lights stay on, everything's fine. Still, I catch myself stopping sometimes, lantern raised, listening for something that isn't there. The dark used to feel like an old friend. Quiet, heavy, predictable. Lately it feels like something else, something I don't understand. And though nobody's said it out loud yet, everyone's waiting for the first real wrong thing to happen. It was a clear night. No wind, no aurora, no reflection on the snow. Just a sky so black it felt solid, like you could lean on it if you lost your footing. The kind of dark that eats light whole. I was checking the heaters down by the strip when it happened. Faint at first, dull Orange bleeding along the horizon. I thought maybe the station's floodlamps had kicked on, but the color was wrong. Too heavy, too wet. It spread slow, soaking through the dark instead of cutting it. When I looked toward the ridge, it was already rising. The moon. It was enormous, not full, not even close. Bloated and uneven, with edges that looked soft and frayed, like something swollen under skin. The color wasn't gold. It was the shade of meat going bad. No glow to it, no shine. The generator behind me coughed once and went still. The dogs stopped. Everything stopped. For a second, the whole world seemed to stop. People came out of their houses one by one, doors opening. Lamps held low, faces pale from weeks of no sun. No one called to anyone else. We just looked up. The light didn't touch us. It took from us, made the color drain out of our skin until everything matched the snow. You could feel it on your tongue, a thickness like breathing through rotten clothes. The moon didn't sit right in the sky. It was too close. Sitting low enough, you could almost believe it was resting on the ridge. The surface shifted, a slow crawling of shadow, as if something underneath it was moving. The light pulsed once, faintly, and the air pushed in against your chest like a pressure wave. But there was no sound, no wind, only sensation. People drifted closer to the center of town. You could see their faces by the way the light smeared across them, a dull orange sheen that made everything look wet and sick. Even the snow looked wrong, as if the light were seeping into it and making it glow from the inside. When people moved, their shadows didn't follow right. Nobody spoke, nobody had words for what we were looking at. All we knew was that it shouldn't be here. The moon doesn't glow like this and has never been this close. Everyone knows that. But there it was, sitting on our horizon like a wound that wouldn't close. After a while, people started backing away. A few went inside, moving carefully, heads low, like they were afraid the thing would notice them. Doors closed, soft curtains drawn, lamps snuffed. They were just pretending it wasn't happening. I stayed outside longer than I should have. The moon didn't move. It hung there, heavy and still. I could feel it on my face, a faint warmth that made my eyes water. It felt like standing in the presence of something alive and aware, but too big to notice you. When I finally went inside, I closed every curtain, locked the door, and sat by the stove. The air smelled faintly of rust and thawed oil, and I could still see the color of that light behind my eyes. When I blinked. By the time people started coming out of their houses again, everyone knew something was wrong. They just didn't know how to talk about it. You can live your whole life in a place where the dark goes on for 60 times longer than nature intended and still believe in the rules. What freezes stays frozen. What's dead returns to the earth. The moon ended that. No matter how much time passed, it never set. It sat on the horizon like a blister, bleeding a thin orange through the clouds. The color soaked into everything. The snow looked bruised. The houses looked old, even the new ones. The radios had stopped working when it first rose. Static, thick as wool. Every channel the same low hum that rose and fell, like breathing. We were cut off. People tried to keep their routines. Work the heaters, check the traps, shovel the paths, anything to feel normal. But the hum kept bleeding through the cracks. Even inside, you could hear it. This low vibration that didn't belong to the house or the wind or the earth. The smell only got stronger. Something sweet at the start and then metal underneath. It clung to your clothes, lived in your hair. You'd step outside and taste was in the snow, in our stoves, in our food. Madsen came by a few days after. His eyes were bloodshot from staying awake. Said the fox traps out by the river were empty, all but one. The one that wasn't was full of fur. No meat, no bones, just fur pressed flat. The snow around it dark and wet, like something had soaked through. He set it with a straight face. All the color drained from it. Shortly after, the smell in the air had turned sour, heavy enough to make your throat tighten. You could taste it in the water. The storekeeper boiled snow to show it was fine, and the steam smelled like a gutted fish. He dumped it out and locked the door without saying a word. The wind still hadn't come back. The town had no sound but its own breathing. Doors shifting, walls settling. When someone did speak, their voice sounded too close, like it came from inside your own chest.

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Caleb North (21:46)

Every story you love, every invention that moves you, every idea you wished was yours. All began as nothing, just a blank page with a blinking cursor asking a simple question. What do you see? Great Ideas start on Mac.

Mint Mobile Announcer (22:12)

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Caleb North (22:18)

We believe if you run, you're a runner, however you choose to do it. Because when you're not worried about doing things the right way, you're free to discover your way. And that's what running is all about. Run your way@newbalance.com Running Signal Connection restored. The first real sign came soon enough. I heard a knock on the wall of the shed while I was checking the line heaters. It wasn't a hammering, just a single solid thud every few seconds. I called out, thinking it was someone making repairs. No answer. I stepped outside and followed the sound around to the back where we strung the carcasses from the last hunt. The reindeer we'd hung was still there, legs stiff, skin like glass, but it was moving. Not jerking, just slow and rhythmic, like breathing. The hide stretched and cracked around the ribs, frost falling off in little white flakes. The hooves tapped against the beam, slow and steady. The head hung loose, jaw half open, eyes clouded. I watched the chest lift once, twice, then stop. The rope creaked and the whole weight of it settled again, like it had remembered it wasn't supposed to be alive. I went back to the house and washed my hands, even though I hadn't touched it. The water came out red for a second, then clear again. By morning everyone had their own story you could tell, but nobody wanted to share them. We all just kept our stoves burning a little brighter, shutting the curtains a little tighter, whispering when we used to talk out loud. The moon stayed where it was, but the color deepened, more bright brown now than orange, the surface bruised and caved in like fruit left too long on the counter. It felt closer every passing hour, pressing on the town from above, stretching the air thinner. You could feel it on your skin when you stepped outside. Not heat, not cold. Something else, a presence that made you aware of every heartbeat, every small motion of your body. By about the fifth night, the air had stopped carrying sound entirely. You could watch a door slam from across the street and hear nothing. The world had gone soft, and somewhere underneath all that silence, something had started to move. You couldn't see it yet, not clearly, but you could feel it the way you feel water rising around your boots before you look down. The town was filling with it. We just didn't know what it was yet. By what my clock told me was the sixth night, I was by the lamp, listening to the stove breathe. The air felt thick enough to chew. The smell outside had changed. It wasn't metallic anymore, but something closer to the reek of fish left in the sun, cut with iron and oil. Then the sound came, a low dragging scrape that started at the end of the street and moved toward town like a plow pushing gravel. It stopped, started again, steady, coming closer. I blew the lamp out before I realized I was doing it. Some instinct told me not to be seen. The dark inside was total. Only the faint red spill from the window cut a crooked line across the floorboards. Something cut across it. For a moment I thought it was a moose, big enough, but there was no rhythm to the movement, no pause between steps. The shape jerked and flowed at the same time, folding across itself. When it stopped in front of Madsen's place, I could see enough through the frost to know it wasn't any kind of animal I'd been raised around. It looked wrong, limbs bent where they shouldn't, the shoulders too wide, the head sunk too far into the chest. The moonlight found seams in the hide, thin dark lines that pulsed as if the thing were breathing through its pelt. Each time it shifted, pieces of it moved out of sync. The door across the lane opened a crack, slow, then pulled open wide and sudden. The light behind him spilled over the thing in the street. It reacted like the light heard it. The whole mass flexed inward and then lunged forward in one smooth pull. I heard Madsen shout once, cut short. The sound that followed was wet and deep, like something heavy falling into mud. He came out of the doorway, backward. I don't know how. He was still moving. There was more of him outside his body than in it. The thing had him hooked through the chest. I couldn't tell where one ended, the other began. Every time he tried to twist free, it reshaped around him, drawing itself tighter, the surfaces sliding around until they found a way to fit. I wanted to move. I wanted to run across the street, swing, shoot, anything. My body wouldn't listen. Every thought was wrapped in the single knowledge that if I made noise, it would know I existed. Madsen stopped fighting. His arms hung loose. The thing lifted him like he was nothing. For a heartbeat I saw his face, eyes open, and then his jaw split sideways and blood streamed out. The thing pressed him against itself and he disappeared into it. The shape that rose after wasn't man or beast. It was both and neither, stretching tall or bones cracking in long succession like a line of firecrackers. It stood there a while, swaying in place, testing the air with pieces that used to be fingers. Then it turned and walked down the center of the street. The silence that followed was almost worse than the sounds that preceded it. I didn't go to the door. I didn't even reach for the rifle. I stayed where I was, knees locked, hand still on the curtain. When I finally forced myself to move, I felt the blood rush back into my fingers, and the pins of it made me sick. Outside, nothing moved. Madsen's door was open, spilling a rectangle of light onto the sickly red snow. I sat down the floorboards, pulled my coat tight and tried to breathe through the smell. Somewhere down the road something broke a window, maybe. The sound carried strangely now, bending around corners, finding its way into places it didn't belong. Then another crash, closer, followed by a dull thud that shook dust from the rafters. I told myself it was moving away. I told myself a lot of things. When the noise finally faded, the guilt came rushing in behind it. I watched a man I've known my entire life die steps away from my door and did nothing. I'd stood still because stillness felt like the only thing that might keep me unseen. And worse than the fear was the relief that it hadn't been me. I stayed by that window until my back screamed and my legs went numb. The snow outside had started to change. It looked wet, but it didn't shine. It absorbed the moon's glow. The world had crossed a line. Well, I wasn't looking. Whatever this was, it was far beyond a bad winter. By the time I ran out of wood, the walls were sweating, something thick, the color of rust. I wiped the condensation from the window and saw movement out past the lane. Shapes slid between the houses, slow at first, like people walking half asleep, but they weren't people. They didn't walk right. Every motion had a stutter to it. Then I heard something screaming. It came from the direction of the Clinic. A man's voice breaking halfway through a word, then turning into something wet and unrecognizable. I don't remember making the decision to leave. I just remember the latch turning in my hand, the sound of my boots hitting the snow. The air hit my face hard, cold and putrid. The streetlights had gone out, but the moonlight filled every gap, low and heavy, spilling through the mist like dirty water. The ground beneath my feet felt soft, as if the frost had thinned. I could see the clinic door hanging open. There was a smear leading from it down the steps, wide and dark. The light inside flickered once, then steadied. I reached the porch and saw her. Samantha Lee, the nurse. She was kneeling over someone sprawled on the floor, her hands slick and shaking. The man's chest was open. His face was badly damaged, but I could see it was clearly Philip, one of the hunters. She looked up at me, eyes glassy and wrong. He's still moving, she said, voice far and hollow. His body beneath her jerked once and his head twisted backward until the neck folded in half. The sound that came out wasn't human. It was the sound of pressure releasing air, escaping something that had been sealed too tight. The skin of his chest rippled, then bulged outward. Something pushed through from the inside, curled and wet. Samantha screamed, fell back, hit the wall, and slid down. I stepped forward without thinking, but stopped when the thing inside Philip pulled itself upright. It stood, using what was left of him as support, the body peeling open into shapes that shouldn't stand on their own. Bone flexed like rope. Muscle ran like wax. The face was still there, half of it anyway, eyes cloudy, mouth open like it was still trying to beg for help. It didn't look at me. With the half rotted face still dark, clinging to what had been Philip. It just pivoted toward the sound of her crying, a wet, deliberate movement. She tried to crawl. Blood covered palms, leaving crimson smears on the clinic's linoleum. The thing reached her before she made it three feet, its limbs elongating with a sound like wet leather stretching. It folded over her like a collapsing tent, its mass rippling and pulsing as it made contact. Her hands beat against its exposed gore, first in wild panic, then in weakening rhythm, fingers splayed and trembling until they finally stopped disappearing into the thing's undulating surface. When it lifted again, its open torso was now a team of sharp organic appendages, like a centipede's legs. They writhed and tore Samantha's body apart, distributing the flesh deeper into itself. I stumbled back down the steps, boots sliding in the slurry. The snow was becoming. Every surface glistened like the inside of a throat. I turned toward my house, and that's when I saw it happening everywhere. Warning Signal interruption detected.

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Caleb North (42:03)

Signal Connection Restored Light bent through the sulfurous mist. Shadows twisted beneath street lamps, stretching into elongated shapes that bore no resemblance to what cast them spindly, multi limbed silhouettes that skittered along walls. Things that should have been dead crawled through every frost rimmed yard and alley, each reanimated corpse moving with its own grotesque parody of life. A man half buried in the crimson tinged snow clawed upward with desperate jerks, his hands fused into a single paddle of glistening veined flesh that squelched with each thrust into the slush. 20 yards away, a woman's mangled shape dragged itself across the cracked asphalt, her spine visibly undulating beneath torn clothing as legs bent backward, knee joints reversed and ankles twisted completely around the wet sound of her tendons stretching and snapping like waterlogged rope fibers giving way under strain. Behind them, the world itself was changing. The snowbanks pulsed like lungs. The drifts peeled apart, revealing a layer beneath that looked alive, pale and veined, throbbing in slow rhythm. It wasn't warm, but it Steamed in the cold, spreading outward in sheets that swallowed the frozen ground. A sound spread far and wide, coming from everywhere at once, a constant low groan that shook the air. Every surface trembled in time with it. I ran. I didn't pick a direction, just moved, hands out, stumbling between houses as the world sagged around me. My boots sank deeper with each step, the ground giving way in wet sleep, sucking pulls. When I looked back, I saw roofs collapsing, the wood stretching before it broke, beams bending as if softened from within. Buildings weren't falling. They were being pulled apart. Everywhere I was looked dead. Things were coming together, drawn to each other like some kind of instinct. Pieces fusing, dragging and collecting until every shape connected into the next. I could hear screaming far away and right in my ears. So many voices it sounded like nearly the whole town. Then they started cutting out, one by one. The moon pressed lower, the air working its way into my lungs and stealing my breath as I tried to use it. As I ran. Somewhere in the black between houses, something moved that wasn't dead. I heard a voice. Small, raw, fleeting. It was a child. The sound snapped me out of whatever trance I'd been in. My legs pulled me toward the sound before I could think better about it. The crying was close now, thin, desperate. Somewhere between the houses. I stumbled through what used to be the street, boots dragging through muck that looked like bits of flesh and blood. The houses that were still standing looked like they wouldn't for long. Walls rippling in slow waves. Door frames sagged like wet paper. The whole town was folding inward, the edges melting together until it all looked alive. Something moved ahead of me, small, crouched, trying to crawl. The child. I reached her, grabbed her by the arm, and she screamed before recognizing me. Her face was pale and cracked with cold, her eyes red from crying. Jessica. She had just turned eight. Where's your family? I asked, but her answer came out in broken sobs. I pulled her close. We're getting out of here. Behind us, the world exhaled. The sound was impossible to describe, like a mountain groaning in pain. The street split open in a long, slow tear, black veins spreading from the fissure as something pushed up from below. The snow, the soil, the bodies, all of it heaved upward, pulsing with that same steady rhythm. The reindeer shed behind the store came apart at once. I saw them spill from it, half bone, half tissue, legs bending backward, mouths full of teeth they never had in life. They moved like they were trying to learn how to run. I dragged the girl toward the edge of town. The cold stung like acid. Every breath scraped my throat raw. My ears Rang so hard I could barely tell when the screaming started again. We passed the church. The bell tower was swaying like it was in a windstorm. Jessica pulled on my sleeve, whispering something I couldn't hear over the noise. I bent closer. She wasn't looking at the church. She was looking past it, toward the forest. The trees were moving, not swaying, not bowing to the wind. They were walking. Roots tore from the ground in thick ropes, dirt streaming off like blood. The trunks twisted together as they moved, bark peeling to reveal the pale skin beneath. They walked toward town in a slow, deliberate march, dragging their roots behind them like entrails. We ran. I don't know how far, but I couldn't stop, and when she couldn't run anymore, I picked her up. Somewhere behind us, something massive shifted, the sound of wet earth collapsing in on itself. The moon had swollen until it filled the entire sky, its surface pulsing in time with the sound. Then the light hit us. It wasn't just bright, it was heavy. It fell through the air in sheets, settling over everything like dust wherever it touched. The ground writhed, and the smell of rot burned the back of my throat. I looked down and saw my footprints filling with movement, thin threads wriggling up from beneath the surface, weaving together like muscle fiber. We were out in the frozen flats now, but even there the ice was changing, rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. The world behind us was collapsing inward, folding like paper, the town sinking into itself in a red glow. The sound was deafening now, a single condition, continuous roar that shook the air without breaking it. I glanced back and saw them coming through the crimson light. Figures, both human and not, cobbled together from the remains of neighbors, friends, fragments of familiar faces. Distances peered out from bodies fused together with a tide of animals, flesh, bone, and fur. The boundaries of individual forms dissolved as they advanced, melting into one vast, writhing mass that stretched across the horizon like a living wall. Don't look back, I said. I couldn't stop myself from doing exactly that. My footsteps vanished beneath the roar that had become everything, and I knew then that I'd never see the sun again. The cold bit deeper into my burning lungs until it felt like the air itself was carving me apart. Jessica's sobs came thin and broken, her voice a small, raw thing against the end of the world. I wanted to tell her something, anything. But words didn't feel real anymore. I couldn't force them from my throat. I kept moving with every ounce of strength left in me. There was no direction to go but away. Behind us, the glow of the moon spread outward, painting the snow for miles in the color of blood and death. That was when I finally understood what hopelessness really meant. It wasn't fear or even surrender. It was the simple, quiet knowledge that no matter what you do, it wouldn't matter.

Cipher / Redwood Bureau Narrator (54:56)

When the Bureau reached what used to be the settlement, there was nothing left that could be cataloged as alive or dead. The ground was fused into a single sheet of carbon stained permafrost. No heat signatures, no organic matter. They collected soil, snow and atmospheric samples. Whatever process powered the deadlight phenomenon had ended and seemingly taken with it both life and the natural residuals of death. Not even a single microorganism was found in the soil. The survivor, Caleb north, was found beyond the perimeter, half frozen, pulse weak but alive. The Bureau classified him as a null carrier, someone exposed to the phenomenon who remained biologically unaltered. He has since been relocated to an undisclosed containment site. Jessica is missing. While Bureau documents say there was no sign of her. We have reason to believe that is a fabrication. Internal correspondence between research divisions theorize the event as a dimensional overlay, a reflection of a moon projected from a parallel plane where the state of matter is reversed. In that environment, entropy doesn't destroy, it creates. The living become fuel. The dead become engines. Archival analysts trace similar soil signatures and polar dig samples dating back over 200 years that correspond with settlements that vanished without explanation. One stark reference comes from a Norse whaler's journal from 1789, translated to and there rose the moon, lo. And of a color unholy, whose light gave no warmth but seemed to pull the very tide after it. And the sea was full of bodies. And those bodies stirred. And I swear before God, they stood again. The truth is, there is no interval, no measurable rhythm. Deadlight does not follow any schedule we can conceive of. All that is known at this point is that it manages to convert decaying or giving organic matter of any kind into some type of animated system. Atmospheric telemetry before this incident shows nothing conclusive. No radiation, no gravitational distortion. The only noteworthy factor outside the event is absence. The sudden removal of solar influence. Which raises the question the Bureau has yet to put to paper. If deadlight manifests where darkness lingers too long, what happens when darkness falls where it should not? A solar eclipse, for instance. For minutes, entire continents meet every condition the phenomenon seem to favor here. Cold shadow, atmospheric displacement, direct lunar alignment. If the event isn't bound to the poles, if it can occur anywhere those elements converge, then it is not a local threat, it is an existential one. And The Bureau doesn't know how to stop it. They don't even know what starts it. Whatever this is, it doesn't operate by any rules. We understand. And when things line up just right, it will happen again. The Bureau tells itself it will be ready. It won't.

Caleb North (58:48)

You've got it all already. I told you what happened. You've got the recording, Took your notes. Why are we still doing this?

Interviewer (58:59)

You said you kept walking after the collapse.

Caleb North (59:03)

For how long? I don't know. Hours? Days. You ever try to count time during perpetual night?

Interviewer (59:14)

You said the town was gone. Define gone.

Caleb North (59:20)

You people love to define shit. Every building. Every structure was gone. And the ground around it opened in a sea of flesh. Or, as I told you, already gone.

Interviewer (59:38)

And you saw no one else alive?

Caleb North (59:42)

No one that stayed that way?

Interviewer (59:45)

Let's talk about the child. Jessica.

Caleb North (59:50)

You know more than I do.

Interviewer (59:53)

Why did we not find her footprints?

Caleb North (59:56)

I told you. She couldn't run anymore. So I carried her as long as I could. Everything was slipping. My hands, my head, the ground.

Interviewer (60:09)

When you say the ground moved, don't.

Caleb North (60:12)

Start with that shit. It moved, it rolled, it breathed, it pushed. You think I'm crazy? Go up there and stand on it yourself.

Interviewer (60:22)

Mr. North, we're only trying to establish facts.

Caleb North (60:26)

Facts? I watched people melt together. I watched a man turn inside out and kill one of my friends. What fucking facts? You keep asking like there's a right answer. It just happened. I ran until I couldn't. That's it.

Interviewer (60:49)

Yet you survived when no one else did.

Caleb North (60:52)

Yeah, lucky me.

Interviewer (60:54)

Your blood work is clean. No infection, no radiation. Nothing we can trace. You understand why that's unusual.

Caleb North (61:06)

I don't care what's unusual. I just want to know if she's here.

Interviewer (61:11)

We didn't find a body.

Caleb North (61:13)

Then she's not dead.

Interviewer (61:15)

We didn't find anything, Mr. North.

Caleb North (61:18)

I told you everything I remember. Every second. The dark, the moon, the dead things. That's all there is.

Interviewer (61:30)

You said the light stopped following you. Do you recall when?

Caleb North (61:36)

I don't know. Somewhere out past the ridge. The sky turned gray. It was quiet again. That's when I fell. That's where you found me, right?

Cipher / Redwood Bureau Narrator (61:49)

Correct.

Caleb North (61:50)

Then we're done. Let me go.

Interviewer (61:53)

Not yet. Tell me again. Where is Jessica?

Caleb North (61:57)

I told you, I don't know. I tried to keep her alive. I tried. I told you everything I know. And Doug? Here we have the limu emu in its natural habitat, helping people customize their car insurance and save hundreds with Liberty Mutual. Fascinating. It's accompanied by his natural ally, Doug.

Mint Mobile Announcer (62:24)

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Caleb North (62:27)

Cut the camera. They see us. Only pay for what you need@liberty mutual.com Liberty. Liberty. Liberty. Liberty Savings Fairy underwritten by Liberty Mutual.

Jack Daniels Announcer (62:35)

Insurance Company and affiliates.

Caleb North (62:35)

Excludes Massachusetts. This episode is brought to you by 20th Century Studios New film Springsteen, Deliver Me from Nowhere. Starring Golden Globe winner Jeremy Allen White and Academy award nominee Jeremy Strong. Scott Cooper, the director of the Academy award winning movie Crazy Heart brings you the story of the most pivotal chapter in the life of an icon. Springsteen Deliver Me from Nowhere now playing only in theaters.