The greenhouse is warm today. Coming into it from the biting autumn wind makes me feel a little better.

I hate the cold. I've never liked it. So living in Minnesota is the wrong place for me.

But that's okay. I won't be here for much longer.

The specially constructed greenhouse is large, encompassing six mature white oak trees, the keys to my salvation.

It's not just any greenhouse, it's reinforced and built to withstand extremely high temperatures.

It's one of several greenhouses spread across eight acres, each designed to secure, contain, and protect these white oak trees, and for good reason, too.

These aren't just any white oak trees.

Although I've never seen what happens when you burn them, I've heard all the tales, all the warnings,

all the threats of what will happen if so much as a leaf finds its way out of the greenhouse

and somehow touches flame.

But that's the foundation for you, keeping you in the dark and feeding you shit while making you work over time for pay,

barely above minimum wage. If they would just show us a video of what happens when you burn some of SCP 60,

maybe we would take it a little more seriously.

Maybe. It's not that I don't believe all the stories. I do. In fact, I'm counting on them to be

true. But still, the jokers that run the foundation ought to be publicly flogged if you ask me.

I surveyed the trees, remembering where I left off yesterday, when Salazar steps up behind me,

having just gone through security.

What's up, Bartley?

He says, pulling on his work gloves.

Hey, Sal, I say.

How's it hanging?

Sal wears the same kind of blue jumpsuit that I'm wearing, complete with the

...