Beside

30 - exposure

"What's your favourite smell?"

"The smell of rain right before it starts. You know that smell?"

"Yeah. I like cookies."

"Cookies are a good smell too."

ᖴO᙭

She's tracking. But she won't find me.

The smoky air in the shadowy hallway is thick, stinking of sweat, blood, and something sour. I walk its length, glooms bouncing against the walls from the single flickering bulb above.

"Freckles! What the fuck!"

Cam's voice carries down the hall in short, annoyed bursts. I don't answer. I pace, heels hitting in heavy thuds, faster than I should, knowing I'll need every bit of this energy when I'm in the cage.

Fuck that. I need to do something.

I reach the payphone, an ancient, rusted thing that's somehow still connected to the grid. I glance down, spotting a few abandoned coins in a wet streak on the concrete floor. I scoop them up, slip them into the phone, then dial directory.

The operator gives me a few seconds of background chatter and muffled voices before she says, "City, what listing please?"

"Whispering Pines Psychiatric Facility," I breathe out, rolling my shoulders.

"One moment."

A click sounds, and then I'm on hold, a warped elevator tune filtering through.

"Fox! You better not be backing out!"

After what feels like an eternity, a deep voice breaks the line. "This is Whispering Pines, how can I assist?"

"Gwenevere Wilder," I say, realizing how rough I sound. "I'm family. Am I able to get an update?"

"Please hold while I transfer you."

I tap my fingers against the payphone, each second stretching longer than the last.

A new voice answers, firm yet detached. "Nurses Station, this is Mark speaking."

"I'm calling about Gwenevere Wilder. I'm her brother. I need to talk to her."

There's a pause as he types, fingers rattling keys. "Ms. Wilder has declined calls from outside parties. Per policy, I can confirm only that she's stable, no other information is permitted at this time."

My throat tightens. Of course she did this. Of course. "Is she safe?"

There's another pause. "She is in stable condition. I'm afraid that's all I can share."

"But she's safe? She's okay?"

"She's participating in group therapy sessions and adhering to her treatment plan. That's all I can disclose."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Right. Fine. Could you tell her that I called?"

"I'll make a note in her file. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

I inhale sharply, all rot and must. "No. Thanks."

"Have a good evening, sir."

Beep!

I slam the receiver into the holder, gripping the plastic until something cracks. Stable is what they call it, but I know it means that her silence is stretching, stiffening like a dead thing. And she's making up random people in her angry goddamn mind.