The rot isn't yet so bad that you can't ignore it half the time (which is about the rate that Bigwiggins seems to be ignoring it without trying), but three apples are beginning to develop slight wrinkles. You can tell Bigwiggins regrets that he can't very well send them up, if he's to maintain the charade, but he hasn't said a word to you. On learning you share a blood type, he insisted on using his for the knifework under the chute; he presented you with the green rubber gloves, to prevent further live traces; but you have not interacted, even in that spare fashion, since the evening before yesterday. When he said "the best way to act a role is to be it," he apparently meant he was going to do his best to drive himself insane with imaginary grief, which he cannot quite accomplish while looking directly at you.
By this point, the lack of news and natural light combined has made absolute ruin of his normal schedule. So, at eight-fifteen in the morning, when an unsolicited message comes down the chute, you're the only one awake.
It's a photocopied page, written in a bold, neat block-print, in English.
Gradually, Light came to realize with increasing certainty that he would never have been able to handle this task himself. He had never had cause to lie in school (his grades were perfect as it was), and it was difficult to imagine pulling off a convincing performance while handcuffed to one’s wrist and under the unblinking stare of L. Nor had Light ever truly "lied" on the stage of life; what he had gone through in recent years could hardly be called lying, for the facial expressions he forced himself to wear—and loathed—bore scant resemblance to genuine happiness. In other words: Light lacked the ability to feign emotion, and the guilt that whispered, "Bigwiggins is forced to do this because of me," weighed upon him with double force. Light feared that this ordeal would either shatter their friendship or seriously destabilize Bigwiggins's sanity. "I don't want to end up alone." Or was it, "I'm afraid"? What was it Light had once said to him?
Yet another part of him—the part that had inherited its mindset from Soichiro—felt that there was far too much melodrama surrounding this plan. Perhaps this was because Light would have overlooked hundreds of crucial details had he suddenly decided, one day, to mend his relationship with his father and recount the story of his life. His last meeting with Soichiro had been a disaster. But surely they would talk again? Someday?
He sighed, attempting to banish these thoughts. Paradoxically, Light had been doing less and less thinking lately. Perhaps this was because he was anticipating the moment when he would no longer have to think at all. However, upon noticing a certain message, he blinked wearily.
It would be foolish of him to dismiss the anagram theory out of hand. Especially considering that Light’s previous "finest hour" had involved the brilliantly executed transmission of a seemingly absurd message.
He rubbed his forehead with his palm, peering at the letters. "Un-der..." No—he had started wrong. Couldn't he form "Near" from these? And then what? There were still so many letters left over... What about "Death Note"? D-e-a-t... No. He couldn't. Hm...
