A few days before the master's birthday, after seven in the evening, I ask the machine about a document about a conspiracy, in English: the Secret Covenant. She writes that there is no credible evidence at all.

I paste the whole of it in for her. I tell her to list 30 points. She lists them.

23 September. It's the master's birthday. Near Łódź, in the middle of nowhere.

They go about starkers. I don't undress.

I have a present for him. A vial of atropine. The one left over from the dog. The one that, in August, had my pupils filling the whole eye for 11 days.

He's pleased.

I stand in my clothes among naked people and think that I'm close now. That soon they'll let me into the group.

Autumn. On another day I'm going to the Bee Tree.

The Bee Tree is an estate in the woods, beyond the last village. A gate, closed grounds. The master lives there.

I'm wearing a smart brown coat.

On the way cars keep me company. They're going where I'm going. The whole municipality is converging. All of them Masons.

The master and two girls are inside. One of them, they tell me, is a therapist. The girls say the master is a thirty-third-degree Mason.

They touch foreheads. I stand to one side. I don't know these girls. Maybe I could have done the same. I wonder what they're experiencing. They're exchanging thoughts.

There's a mirror. A two-way one. There are cameras everywhere. They're standing behind the glass and watching. They'll look their fill, and then they'll come out in Illuminati robes and say that I'm worthy. That they're letting me in.

There's alcohol on the table. I don't touch it. You have to show that you're not addicted to anything. A Mason must be free. A Mason must be spotless, he can't give in to earthly temptations.

I step outside for a cigarette. Several times. Not in front of them, just as he told me.

It comes back to me that he said more. That there would be a woman and a child. And that there would be another one too, and she would be the gate. That I can talk to her and ask questions.

The master isn't around much. I sit with the therapist. I talk and ask questions.

After ten in the evening a little girl appears. It's late, and she's not asleep. She has LEGO bricks. There's a board game. She and I play with the bricks. We play the game.

A woman and a child. It checks out.

The master walks through the middle of the room.

— I've got mushrooms here in my hand, look. I'm going to put them away.

— Come on, let's eat!

— Not today.

— Come on.

— I'm not eating today. You go ahead on your own.

I insist. He puts them in my hand.

— Here, stuff yourself.

I eat them.

And only then do I remember that this is an exam.

Alcohol: didn't touch it. Cigarettes: outside. Mushrooms: eaten, straight from the hand, in front of the mirror.

The shame. I'm still hoping they might let me off.

They go cold. They make a show of being tired. After midnight they go to bed.

I look into the mirror.

Nobody comes out.

I order a taxi. At home I go straight to the bog, stick a finger down my throat and puke the mushrooms up. Maybe they've poisoned me.

I'm not certain what happened. But in my gut I know I've failed.

I've let the master down. He was the one who was meant to lead me in. Now he can't.

The master has a word for ordinary people. The herd. They understand nothing. I used to be outraged when he talked like that. I fought that kind of thinking.

I'm left in the herd.

They tricked me. Maybe there'll be one more chance.

It takes me a long time to come round. The Illuminati are following me and watching. More so now.

I don't ring the master.