A Thousand Ways To Run

Chapter 8

It was three days later, on the third Sunday that I had spent in the White House. My sleeping habits had loosened, and a majority of the morning was spent under the thick covers, eyes shut tight in hopes of catching just another half an hour of thoughtless rest to no avail. I rolled out of bed, eventually, fitting on some mid-rise socks and some new comfier clothes that had been brought to me earlier in the week. I didn’t feel the urge to put on a uniform before working anymore. People say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit, and only twelve to break one. I did the same thing nearly every morning; wake up, dress, and work.

There is a certain pride that comes in work and getting a job done. I was working constantly. I wrote essays over topics; I studied cases on theories of negative reinforcement on prisoners of war; I expanded my mind to any topic I might have to deal with; and I learned things that I was sure none of my schools were ever going to teach me. The society I grew up in wasn’t exactly full of rainbows and sunshine.

My computer was installed with government files of the lowest class – things spy schools would teach to first-years. Days rolled into, well, more days, as I spent hours crawling through files on issues of no importance. All I wanted was for someone to pop in and tell me I wasn’t working, that I was slacking off. I needed a teacher to hand back an essay with a scowl on their face because I wrongly cited an article about nuclear technology from the sixties. There was no push.

I spent the first hour translating the Warren Commission into French, and then my stomach made a painful rumbling noise. I looked to the doorway, expecting a plate of food to have appeared silently while I was pondering over verb connotations. But there wasn’t.

I checked the clock, and, as it turned out, my hour had turned into three by some sort of sorcery. It was over an hour past noon, and without so much as a crumb of breakfast. I needed food. On the downside, I only knew of one kitchen. And I had spent the last four days doing my best to control the feverish twitch that my hand had to the door, and the doorknob, and freedom’s air.

My stomach and curiosity won the battle with my better judgement, as they had been lately.

I crept out the door, the middle of my back grazing the wall as all my weight was shifted to the balls of my feet. Penny had made the mistake of leaving the pictures the hallway camera takes on my desk, each one had a time in the corner. I studied them for hours, searching for a pattern and coming up empty. But I ascertained at what angle the lense faced, and if I just pressed myself thin enough, I was as good as a ghost.

I crept around corners, maintaining the presence of a ghost, until I was near the kitchen. I heard almost no sounds other than an occasional creak from upstairs. With poised and purposeful movements, I was rolling soundlessly into the kitchen, coming up in a crouch behind a counter. No sign of life.

I was rifling through the cabinets, finding nothing but some heavy sacks of potatoes, when I froze at the sound of feet coming closer. There wasn’t enough room in the cabinet for me to fit, no matter of twisting and turning and not breathing would change that. I waited until the very last second as the person entered into the threshold of the kitchen before I rolled headfirst out of the second entrance and into the hallway.

I was pressed against the wall, eyes closed in concentration as I listened. It was a male, middled aged and most likely The President (which, evidently, didn’t help the nervousness slowly enveloping me.) He stepped in, grabbed something off the counter, took a bite out of something, and then began to wander to the doorway I had just come out of out.

Without an escape route or second thought, I opened the nearest door and decided that any other member of the family was better to confront than President Edley. The door I opened shut with a click as I released the knob slowly. My breathing was the only sound in the room as the steps began to fade back into the kitchen. I sighed, letting my shoulders relax. The lack of practice had made me jumpy and louder than usual. Lazy. Sloppy. Weak.