Back at her desk, Mrs. Sigsby tells Rosalind to hold all interruptions except for Trevor Stackhouse or Zeke Ionidis, who is running a D-Level surveillance check. She contemplates a screen saver of a Siesta Key beach and admits to herself she will likely die at the Institute, as it has become her life.

Mrs. Sigsby reflects on how the Institute similarly consumes its staff, many of whom came from military, security, or law enforcement backgrounds. She notes the base-like environment, the nearby village with PX-style amenities, and the pattern of employees always returning and never talking about the Institute’s activities despite operational sloppiness.

She acknowledges the atrocities committed—hundreds of children destroyed—and believes the staff’s silence stems from understanding their mission: safeguarding the fate of the world and the planet, which justifies any means. She considers the personal costs to employees’ families, citing how the job replaces outside life and even marriages, as with Maureen Alvorson.

Mrs. Sigsby unlocks her desk and examines the Zero Phone, a screenless device used to reach higher authority. She debates calling to report issues and anticipates either commendation for initiative or replacement for overreacting, resolving that a call is necessary but significant enough to require preparation.

She decides not to call immediately, citing the need to manage Alvorson’s death and to make notes to be concise when speaking to the lisping man who answers the Zero Phone. She frames the delay as planning rather than procrastination.

Rosalind patches through Zeke Ionidis, who reports full locator attendance: twenty-eight blips in Back Half, with additional counts in Front Half across the lounge, playground, and rooms. Relieved, Mrs. Sigsby thanks him and feels somewhat better, reassured that no residents are missing.

With that confirmation, she moves on to her next tasks, including disposing of Alvorson and continuing to address operational issues.