The First Runner

Dear Maze Gods: I Want a Pony

The moment the doors groaned open at sunrise, I was already there—waiting. Two weeks to the day since I came up from the Box, and I wasn't going to waste a second of it. My legs burned to move, to stretch, to run like hell through that shifting stone monstrosity that kept me penned in like a lab rat. Bark trotted beside me, tongue lolling, tail wagging like we were going on a morning jog rather than plunging into potential death traps. But he didn't complain. Not that he could. He was still true to his name—Bark, the barkless dog.

I ran the Maze hard that morning, feeling the weight of the two weeks settle somewhere deep in my bones. I'd memorized some of the wall shifts already, the subtle clunks and groans that signaled movement. I didn't have a map, but I had a brain, and by now it was starting to string together pieces—tiny, infuriating clues etched into muscle memory.

Sometime midmorning, while I was catching my breath near a jagged corner of Corridor H, the faint but unmistakable echo of the supply alarm rang out. High and metallic, like a cruel dinner bell. I didn't even hesitate. I took one last mental snapshot of the corridor—scrape marks on the floor, a mossy smudge that looked suspiciously like a middle finger—and then turned back.

Bark was already at the Box when I got there, seated like some dutiful sentry, tail thumping. He must've heard the alarm, too. Smart boy.

The Box was open. I peered down the shaft and saw the familiar stack of crates and bundles. My stomach flipped. Supplies day. My semi-monthly lifeline. And possibly—just maybe—a tiny, passive-aggressive clue as to who the hell stuck me here in the first place.

I climbed down and immediately started digging through the haul.

First, the essentials. A burlap sack full of what I assumed were root vegetables—potatoes and onions and a few sad-looking carrots, dirt still clinging to them like they'd been yanked straight from the ground five minutes ago. A few cans of things with no labels (I was beginning to suspect whoever ran this place had a real sense of humor). Salt, sugar, and pepper in unmarked Ziploc bags. I sniffed each one just to be sure.

Then, blessedly, a new pair of boots—my size this time. Not a size too small, not comically clown-sized. Just right. I might've teared up a little. No one tells you how much you'll appreciate correctly-sized footwear until your toes have been rubbing raw for fourteen days.

There was a stack of scratchy wool blankets, grey and military-grade by the looks of them. They smelled vaguely of dust and old basements, but I was willing to forgive that if they kept me from freezing during the nights when the wind howled like some banshee thing in the trees.

Two books. One was a medical textbook—dense, water-damaged, and probably written in the 1980s. The other was a battered field manual on edible plants and fungi. Extremely helpful. Extremely ominous. Nothing screams "you're on your own now" like a guide to foraging and amateur surgery.

There was also a coil of heavy-duty rope, a pair of rusted garden shears (great), actual scissors (thank you), some iodine tablets, a lighter, and three boxes of matches tied together with twine. Someone was trying to keep me alive, but just barely.

And then—blessed be—a bag of dog food. Real dog food. Not squirrel meat or leftover stew scraps. Bark sniffed it and practically did a backflip.

Still, no map. No key. No letter. No "Hey, sorry you're trapped in a never-ending puzzle hell, hope this helps." Just... stuff. Stuff to keep me alive. Nothing to help me escape.

No answers. Just comfort.

Which honestly might've been worse.

I sat down on the crate, ran my fingers over the spines of the books, then looked up at the sky filtering through the top of the shaft.

"Thanks, I guess," I muttered. "Real helpful."

Bark sneezed like he agreed.

Once everything was unloaded from the Box, I got to work. Bark followed me around with his usual quiet intensity, his eyes tracking my every move like he thought I might suddenly transform into a pork chop. He sniffed at the bag of dog food and let out a little huff. "Yeah, yeah, I see you," I muttered, dragging the heavy bag over to his corner of the hut and cracking it open. "Fancy kibble for my silent sidekick."

I arranged the medical textbook on the rickety little shelf I'd built out of leftover crates and a suspiciously straight log I found near the glade edge. Right beside it went the two new paperbacks—both weirdly pristine and smelling faintly of antiseptic and boredom. One was some cheesy romance where the shirtless guy on the cover looked constipated. I nearly laughed out loud. "Thanks, mystery overlords. This'll really feed my soul."

The seeds I spread out on the table, flipping through the tiny labels like I was dealing cards. Carrots. Tomatoes. Basil. A weird, unlabelled packet I decided to nickname "Mystery Green" and plant at a safe distance from anything I might want to actually eat.

The blankets were immediately folded and tucked into the shelf under my bed—thicker than my current ones, soft too, like someone up there felt a bit guilty for not sending me a proper pillow. I found a box of toiletries too: two toothbrushes (either generous or someone up there thought I had company), some soap that smelled like pine, and a small mirror that I caught myself scowling into for a full minute before I remembered I should probably do something productive.

The kitchen haul was a win. Salt, pepper, sugar—actual sugar!—and more cooking oil, all in resealable pouches. There were matches (hallelujah), a couple of metal pots and pans, a new knife (bless), and even a battered wooden spoon that somehow made me feel like a grandma in a fairy tale.

I stacked it all neatly, giving myself a running commentary as I went. "Look at us, Bark. Real domestic. All we need now is a coffee machine and a Netflix subscription." He thumped his tail once, unimpressed.

I found a pencil tucked into the bottom of one of the boxes—clearly intentional—and with a grin that probably looked deranged, I snatched a scrap of the box flap and started writing.

Dear Whoever Is Watching,

Thanks for the socks, the food, and the medical textbook I totally won't use to freak myself out by diagnosing imaginary diseases.

In the spirit of generosity, here's my next list of requests:

A mini-fridge stocked with bubble tea

A karaoke machine (Bark's dying to sing)

One (1) duck named Craig

A live goat, just to spice things up

The entire "Lord of the Rings" trilogy on DVD

A DVD player

A working TV

A therapist

I read over it, added a tiny doodle of Bark in a wizard hat next to the goat, then carefully folded the list and stuck it into the empty supply box like it was a sacred offering to the gods of Ridiculous Hope.

Then I sat back on my heels and looked at everything I'd sorted, organised, cleaned, and stored. The hut looked almost like a real home now. Weirdly functional. Unsettlingly cozy. I dusted my hands off and said to no one, "Alright then. Let's see if you've got a sense of humour."

And with that, I shut the Box lid and left it for tomorrow.