I'm running on a couple of large assumptions right now. First, that Tom is hiding somewhere in this twelve-storey prison, waiting to be sought out. Next, that he wants to waste his time playing this child's game of hide and seek with his annoying roommates. And last, that my headstart would be an advantage to finding Tom. I don't bother with the perfectly reasonable explanation that he is sitting in plain sight with other friends, his actual friends, having the best birthday dinner he can in this place.
Four flights of stairs drain my lungs of breath, but I make it to the eighth floor. I pretend to head for a dorm, toying with a card in hand. With a swift glance up and down the hall, I take two daring lunges to the next door, press my card to the reader and push the door hard.
Lights, cameras, action.
Exactly, Siri. Welcome to the surveillance room. We are going to peep on Tom.
Hopefully, he isn't doing anything weird ;)
I smack my forehead hard and Siri's voice gurgles away.
The surveillance room is painfully bright and eerily silent. I rub my eyes and suck up all my complaints before I embark on squinting at each screen. On my first and second rounds, there's nothing out of the ordinary. It's like the hardest game of Where's Wally until the Rec bell rings. An exodus of kids floods out of the Dining Hall, filling the tiny screens with so many colours and shapes. No way I'll find him this way.
I shove myself into a bustling corridor, slipping past passersby. At the lift, I ride down to the first floor. I hardly ever stop by since I have no friends, not on floor one at least. There's nothing to enjoy on the first floor unless you enjoy the low hum and slight vibrations of the institution's power generator. And it seems that Tom doesn't much enjoy it, since he is nowhere on the first floor.
You'd think Tom would be easy to find. Bright eyes, golden crown, towering at almost two metres, he's literally a red flag. But he isn't on the second, third or fourth floor either. He isn't hiding in the pantries, in amongst the bread, not disguised as a kitchenhand. By the fifth floor, I swear I'd found him. Then, a rainbow conga line conga'd in front of me and I'd lost the red-suited blond.
He must've seen me and dashed up to the sixth floor.
The sixth floor, somehow even more crowded than the fifth, contains no Tom's. But for a fraction of a second, the crowd parts to reveal the bane of my existence: Jonathan Chasing. When he catches sight of me, he looks offended. The glint in his eye promptly returns and he's darting forward, entering a room on the right side of the corridor.
I make the bad decision of backing up into the lift and hitting the number seven.
Man, why does this even matter? What if you find Tom?
I could spare him from a beat down from Johnny.
Wow, you're taking the non-violent option? And you seriously think Johnny would punch him?
Geez, Siri, you have such low expectations of me.
The seventh floor is a ghost town. Absolutely no one loiters, not a peep is conceived in this hallway. I can hear the tip of my thumb running along my knuckle. This isn't normal. Not that anything in 2002 would otherwise be normal.
The Mail Room was popular at the start of our stay. I would frequent this floor up to three times a week. The idea of letter exchange was romanticised within the institution before it was ridiculed within a year. That, and the fact that hardly anyone received mail beyond the institution, were the main reasons why the Mail Room lost its appeal. I still visit. I'm one of the few fools in this place, hoping that my words will make it out of 2002. I hope that they come back to me too. But for now, I am filled with inexplicable fear and preemptive disappointment.
The lock on the door clicks as I pressed my card to the reader. Push the door cautiously, peer inside.
Tom is startled, mouth agape like a deer in the lights of an oncoming bus. Pen in the air, his second hand instinctively covering the words he has just written. "Addi," he stammers, rising from his seat. "What are you doing here?"
I don't dare move, scared to frighten him away.
"Writing a letter, duh-doy." Tom smacks his forehead playfully, pacing towards me. "Well, do you want to come in?"
He sets a firm hand on my forearm and I freeze up. A second later, he retracts like he's been burnt.
My eyes double. "Dude."
"What?"
"You just touched me..."
No words come out of his mouth but his lips are forming words. "I'm sorry!" he finally manages.
"No, no, it's just— aren't we playing hide and seek right now? Ebony, Johnny and I have been after you all night."
Tom tilts his head. "We are? Well, then, you've just won. Congrats, Addi."
A tight smile tugs at my lips, and in realising my concern I come to notice that he's doing the same. Faking it. "If you weren't playing hide and seek, where were you at dinner?"
"I was with my coordinator." Tom sighs a long, heavy breath. "She wants me to enlist. Says that if I put my name down today, I'll be flying out of here next week. First off the rank."
My hand flies up to my mouth. "Tom, that's amazing."
"Is it?"
I've known Tom for a year, which is short considering he's lived sixteen now. But what I know is this: he is incredibly hardworking. He's always listening to us whining but never contributes a complaint. Always putting himself last, always trying to mediate two sides of a debate (particularly between Johnny and me). He does his part and more for 2002 because he really likes the community. I don't think he ever wants to leave. But it is his duty to be a pilot, and Tom would never do anything against the word of 2002. He thinks we'll be safe here as long as war is being waged on Australia.
He's running the blade now. If he falls one way, he's abandoning his duties as a resident of 2002 and risking eviction. The flipside is to leave the sanctuary and lose it all.
I realise his eyes are not unusually light now, but particularly reflective as a thin layer of tears glosses his irises.
"What're you doing?" I ask with a soft smile, ignoring the pain of the fist in my throat.
"Oh, uh, I'm writing a letter." Tom turns quickly, pacing to the table. "Needed to get some things off my chest. It's stupid."
"That's not stupid." I don't know whether I should tell him I often do that too. "Who's the lucky recipient?"
His cheeks are tinting the colour of roses. "My mum—not that it matters. They'll never send it and she'll never get to read it."
Last year on my birthday, I'd wished on an eyelash to get a letter from my mum. I can only imagine how much he needs his mum right now too. He's sixteen but he's still a kid. "Hey, Tom," I rasp. When he looks at me, I feel my smile shedding tears. "You know we're here for you, right? If you need someone to lean on... I'm—we're here. I'll—we'll always be there for you."
He's trying to put on his brave face as usual. His 'don't worry about me, let me help you' face. "Thanks, Addi. I know."
I wish I could say more or do more right now. But the door flies open, and a panting Johnny steps in. His face lights up with evil luminance when he sees Tom. I slap my hand against Tom's forehead for him to see.
Johnny groans. "Aw, man!"
