There was no Exide Credo. He flipped pages. Page 18 was blank. Page 19 had a single sentence: "We do not charge. We remind."

Arthur was out of time. The battery casing cracked. A single drop of electrolyte the color of old blood seeped out. He did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed the manual, held it to his chest, and screamed the truth.

He didn't have a bell. He banged a spoon against a coffee mug. The charger’s screen flickered: ACCEPTABLE. CONTINUE.

Silence.

"None of your damn business," he said.

COVENANT BROKEN. INITIATE RITE OF RECOVERY. SEE PAGE 17.

Remove the battery from its vessel. Clean its terminals with a cloth soaked in saltwater and your own saliva. This re-establishes the ionic bond of origin.

It read:

"This is insane," Arthur whispered. But he licked a rag, dipped it in the sea, and wiped the terminals. The battery felt warm, like a sleeping animal.

The battery began to swell. A low, mournful horn sounded from the charger's speaker—not electronic, but deep, like a foghorn from a ship that didn't exist.