The Center

Chapter 8 - "Achievement of your happiness

Walking back to the orientation room, I run my hand along the wooden walls. The smooth veneer prevents slivers but not the bumps and knots. Numbness coats every cell in my body except my fingertips.

Bump.

Knot.

Smooth.

I need to snap out of this funk. So what if Uncle John can't help me. I don't need him, I'll escape on my own.

Back in the painted room, an egg-like stink fills the air. I don't remember it being there before, but it doesn't smell new. I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the scent. Doesn't work.

I slump into my seat. The four of us sit at our original tables. Everyone's quiet. No doubt they were violated the same as me. And, I can guess, if they made phone calls they were equally unsuccessful. Maybe we could team together to plan an escape.

But that's stupid.

Mario and Fisher are criminals and Dee Dee's barely a teen.

No, I'll have to get out of this place on my own. The lights dim. The screen illuminates a satellite map of what must be the entire center. I lean forward and smile. This is perfect. I recognize the top of the Snowcat parked next to the roof of the building we're in. This isn't an old shot. It's current. Real time. Now.

My attention is pulled to a round building in the middle of the map. Eight paths reach straight from it like a child's drawing of the sun. Other scattered roofs peek through snow and trees. Green, white and brown cover the majority of the screen. All except one gray patch of open cement that sits in the upper left corner. I can just make out what looks like the lines of a maze.

What I can't see is the fence. My best escape option would be to head down the path the Snowcat came up. Risk the electricity. Or better yet, hide and wait for another vehicle to enter and sneak thru while the gate is open.

On the map, hundreds of lighted dots float around.

Some yellow.

Some red.

Very few blue.

Not wanting the distraction, I stop watching the floating dots and study the perimeter of the map for escape routes. Jackson drops a leather band on the table in front of me. I rub the pain from my temples. Seriously? How many torture devices does this place have?

"It's called The Shackle." Rowena lifts one in the air like a flight attendant demonstrating the use of air bags. I could use an oxygen mask right about now, but I bet we won't get one of those. "The Center uses this device to keep track of you. Jackson told you the windows don't have bars and when you get to your dorms you will see that the door to your room locks from the inside. You determine what to secure both night and day. Your carry-on bag has already been taken to your room."

I raise my hand. It's easier to pretend I'm in a school rather than a jail. A trick to fool my brain from the horribleness of this place. "Why did we bring our own things if we can't wear them?"

"Oh you can," Rowena's smile creates an ugly crease across her face. "As soon as you earn them. But hopefully your bag doesn't only have clothes or shoes. Any personal mementos can be kept in your room for comfort."

My Louis Vuitton carry-on has clothes, shoes and make-up. I didn't bring a freaking teddy bear. Man, this place is seriously twisted. First tasers, then a strip search, now mind games.

"The Shackle will track your location at all times."

At all times?

"Yes," Rowena smiles at me. "At all times."