Of course he remembers. He can't remember pieces of himself, gaps of his memory that have fallen to pieces and been torn away. He can't remember entire weeks, months, years from certain periods of his life. He can't even remember the exact points in time in which he lost track of Alex, lost track of Jay, lost track of Brian.

But he remembers this.

Old tape. It's made of the same stuff they use to make flash paper and guncotton. You can dump burning film in water, and it'll just keep burning.

And that's the thing with tape. It holds things together, but it also burns.

His fingertips chase the wood of the surrounding edges until he picks out a particular spot that seems driest. The lighter hiss-spits to life after a few sharp jerks of his thumb.

"Damn right," says Tim.

He puts flame to wood.

Smoke curls out from the wet grain, but eventually it catches light. He blows on it, gentle, to stoke the flames.