I'm haunted by the feeling of claustrophobia. People walk too close to me, sounds envelop me in an impenetrable blanket and there seems to be a shortage of oxygen. My fists are balls until the world seems too clammy and humid to tolerate, and when I let them go I'm riddled with vertigo.
A bony shoulder crashes into mine and I'm jolted back to the present. Ebony is eyeing me, raising a brow as if to ask whether I'm alright. "Just tired from last night's shift, that's all." I cough a little. "Where's Tom and Johnny?"
"Johnny's probably with his coordinator. It's his birthday, y'know?"
My eyes slip to the screen glaring us in the face. 30 August 2018. "Yeah, I know."
"Did you wish him a happy birthday?"
"Didn't get the chance."
"Probably the last time you'll get to," she says before sticking a spoonful of corn into her mouth.
I give her a funny look. "Last?"
"He's allowed to leave for the army. Ain't no way he's staying."
I knew that. Doesn't make the reminder any less shocking. After the initial shock, I come to a small sense of peace that Johnny won't be cooped up in 2002. This institution couldn't contain him. And for that, he's the bravest of us. I wonder how Ebony feels about Johnny inevitably leaving. And Tom... "What about Tom?"
Ebony shrugs. "I think I saw him with a coordinator."
"What? Is he in trouble?"
She knows as much as I do. It's not our last dinner altogether but it feels like everyone is heading in a different direction and turning their back on this group. There wasn't any reason to expect that we would hold together. Again, my hope had let me down.
After dinner, Ebony and I head back to the dorm. My bus for the night shift leaves at 2000, so I'd spend about an hour doing anything but thinking of dying old people. Already sitting in our dorm on my bed is Tom, head hung with a sheet of paper between his hands. He's only in that position for a split second before he's on his feet, an automatic smile greeting us. "How was dinner?"
"Normal. Where were you?"
"With my coordinator."
Ebony seems troubled. "You in trouble?"
"No," he laughs breathily and uneasily. "Not really."
"Not really?" My eyes drop to the sheet shaking in his grip. "What's that?"
"A formal letter."
For a long moment, I just stare at him. He seems on edge already, which is kind of making me nervous. "You're alright?" I press. "I don't mean to worry you, but a formal letter doesn't sound very promising."
"Yeah, I'm fine. And this—" He waves the flimsy sheet. "This is an ultimatum."
Cut the theatrics, Tom, it can't be that serious.
"An ultimatum for what?" I nod, urging him to open it.
"I mean, I was gonna wait until Johnny got back but I guess I can tell you guys now," Tom sighs, pinching his nose bridge with his left hand. "My coordinator said that I have to complete a mission for every three months of my being here, or I'm out of 2002."
"A mission?"
"Yeah. A return trip makes a mission. I have to do eight missions plus however many until the war ends, or I get evicted."
"How long is a mission?" asks Ebony.
He pauses, swallowing hard. "Depends on the other end. Most say about a week, but it can take up to a month."
