It's unclear whether this corridor is dark or bright. "Hurry up, slowpoke," Thomas teases me as he strides past and I hurry my pace to match his insufferable, clinking chains. I can't handle these posers, but I guess this is better than dressing us up as doohickey cowboys.
No, no it isn't. I want the doohickey cowboys.
Me too, Siri.
At the corridor's end, we reach a dark sea of emos waiting for a ride down the lift. When the carriage lands on our floor, the grates draw open and the mass lurches forward. Eventually, I'm packed into the lift against my will, standing so close to someone that I can feel them breathing down my neck. Conceal, don't feel, I repeat, rationing my breaths. Don't let them know.
At last, we spill out onto the fourth floor, and like little ants, we march towards the source of food. The Dining Hall is boring like the rest of 2002, except for its windows. They are set so high that no one can see through them, but at least they capture what little natural light we have left in this world.
I try to keep as close to Ebony as possible. I mirror her actions almost to the tee: swaggering over to the snaking queue, picking up a tray in my right hand, dragging myself to the first station, wordlessly eyeing the kitchenhand and their bowl of unidentifiable substance. I hate how dry and wet it looks. I hate that it has no scent to indicate what it might taste like.
"This is like Hogwarts meets Shutter Island Detention Centre," says Johnny on my left. I almost leap out of my skin almost spilling scalding hot grey stuff on us.
"Azkaban," I correct him, and he looks down at me with surprise. I should be surprised—I can't believe he's read Harry Potter. But enough of that. Johnny is annoying me with his presence. "Begone, poser."
I totter over to Ebony, and we make a silent agreement to sit far from other breakfast-goers. When do you think we'll be out of here? I consider asking. My attention wanders over to six guards standing in less than a hundred-metre radius from us. A grotesque vision crosses my mind. You know what they say—the worst thing about prison is the dementors.
Across the table, Ebony hasn't touched her... food. I look down the table. Most kids are stirring the questionable goop. Finally, I see someone stick a spoon into their bowl and then into their mouth. They cautiously swallow. I hold my breath, waiting for them to collapse.
That is so morbid of you.
Well, someone has to take one for the team.
When they do not double over and die, I decide it is safe to consume. Not that I would consume it, but in the unlikely event that I start breaking down my own muscle mass for sustenance, at least I know this is an option.
The speakers around the hall crackle to life. "Apologies for the interruption," begins a booming voice. "Welcome to 2002, one of the forty war refuges across the state. You are safe here for the duration of your stay."
Something about telling us that we're 'safe' makes me aware that we very well are not safe at all. My gaze dart around the hall, trying to pick out the gullible believers, but instead, I land in Thomas' sky blue eyes. As a reflex, I rip away.
"2002 can continue to be a sanctuary for its residents with your help. Please respect your fellow residents and carry out your assigned roles. In doing so, we can keep you safe within our walls.
"At eight hundred hours, you will report to your various different divisions. Please refer to the Manual in your packs for the location. There, you will meet your coordinators, who will answer any questions you may have about our system. Thank you."
Silence lingers in the hall for a moment and we're all waiting for a protester to stand on a table. Whether we'll join or await their consequences, I'm not sure. But no one leaps up in anguish. A few whispers trickle into the hall again.
My attention returns to Ebony's. "So, how long do you think we're here for?"
She hums to the tune of I don't know.
How long do you think you'll be here?
Mm... a few months tops.
Oh, Addi. My sweet, little Addi.
What?
You'll be out of here someday.
When?
Someday.
