ADDI THE BADDI
After my iconic line, Harris said, "That's a suicide mission, love."
Something clicked inside me like the safety of a gun. "Are you surprised that I'd rather die trying?"
"No. Just surprised you didn't offer me the option. You think I'd help you?"
I opened my mouth but no words came out. He smirked and I felt compelled to slap him hard. "It's alright, Adelaide. Of course, you have my support. I'm flattered you trust me already."
Then he walked out of the room, only to be trapped in the corridor because he didn't have the key to make a bomb-ass exit.
***
He finds us a place to sit outside for lunch: a little bench from which we can watch planes take off and land. It's freezing, but he assures me it'll be easier if we don't have to lie to so many people about who I am. At least, until we've figured out a plan. "There's an American cargo plane we found near the border," Harris tells me. "I think it's functional, but we're going to have to sanitise the American-ness out of it. The question is, where could the camp be?"
"Olympia," I suggest. "Capital of Washington."
He furrows his brow. "Why not Seattle?"
"Popular city. Lots of residential architecture and stuff. Too much effort setting up a camp."
Harris nods, pleased with my response. It makes me feel a little warmer. "So we can just land on site."
I take a sip of my soup, which is steadfastly surpassing lukewarm. "Don't you think we're being a little too positive about all this?"
"I mean, you did escape a high-security facility and end up halfway across the world, and no one's after you."
"Yet."
"I think if anyone can do it, it's you, Adelaide." Harris is somewhere between being super supportive and just expecting me to be able to execute the plan flawlessly. I'm not sure if I'm more grateful or pressured by his support.
For a moment, the two of us just sit in idle silence, listening to a wind gust past despite the sun being at its peak. I don't dare sneak a glance at Harris, instead, training my eyes at the cold liquid sitting at the bottom of my tin bowl. My teeth begin to chatter. I beg them to stop.
Harris shuffles around a bit and I assume he's shifting for comfort until a heavy but warm coat lands on my shoulders. I look up to see him adjusting his coat around me. "Don't do that." He shrugs, ignoring me. "Thanks," I mumble, barely audibly, and the silence returns.
A plane lands, and minutes later, another takes off. I think back to a letter Tom sent, detailing his passion for flying. I wonder if the same goes for Harris. I wonder if he flies because he doesn't want to fight on the battlefield, or he gets seasick, or he hates the sight of blood. I wonder if he flies because he associates the sky with freedom, and it's the quickest get away from this suffocating war for him too.
Harris clears his throat. "I'd better get you a fake ID."
"So I can drink," I joke. It takes his exhaled laugh for me to realise how seriously he's taking his role of helping me. Once again, I'm torn between gratitude and pressure.
"How would you like a new name? Since you hate your actual name," he offers.
I beam at the suggestion. "Sophie Anderson. Perfectly plain."
Harris sticks his hand out, cracking his first smile in a while. "It's lovely to meet you, Sophie."
