The longer I’m here, the more leverage I gain. If theyknow what I’m capable of, they must also know that this is unsustainable. They can’t use shock and poison to destabilize me indefinitely. I’ve now been here long enough to have taken stock of my surroundings, and I’ve been filing away information for nearly two weeks—the movements of the sun, the phases of the moon, the manufacturer of the locks, the sink, the unusual hinges on the door. I suspected, but now know for certain, that I’m in the southern hemisphere, not only because I know Max and Evie hail from Oceania, but because the northern constellations outside my window are upside down.
I must be on their base.
Logically, I know I must’ve been here a few times in my life, but the memories are dim. The night skies are clearer here than they were in Sector 45. The stars, brighter. The lack of light pollution means we are far from civilization, and the view out the window proves that we are surrounded, on all sides, by the wild landscape of this territory. There’s a massive, glittering lake not far in the distance, which—
Something jolts to life in my mind.
The memory from earlier, expanded:
She shrugs and throws a rock in the lake. It lands with a dull splash. “Well, we’ll just run away,” she says.
“We can’t run away,” I say. “Stop saying that.”
“We can, too.”
“There’s nowhere to go.”
“There are plenty of places to go.”
I shake my head. “You know what I mean. They’d find us wherever we went. They watch us all the time.”
“We can live in the lake,” she says simply.
“What?” I almost laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious,” she says. “I heard my mum talking about how to make it so people can live underwater, and I’m going to ask her to tell me, and then we can live in the lake.”
I sigh. “We can’t live in the lake, Ella.”
“Why not?” She turns and looks at me, her eyes wide, startlingly bright. Blue green. Like the globe, I think. Like the whole world. “Why can’t we live in the lake? My mum says th—”
“Stop it, Ella. Stop—”
A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Goose bumps rise along my skin.Ella.
Ella Ella Ella
Over and over again.
Everything about the name is beginning to sound familiar. The movement of my tongue as I form the word, familiar. It’s as if the memory is in my muscle, as if my mouth has made this shape a thousand times.
I force myself to take a steadying breath.
I need to find her.I have to find her.
Here is what I know:
It takes just under thirty seconds for the footsteps to disappear down the hall, and they’re always the same—same stride, same cadence—which means there’s only one person attending to me. The paces are long and heavy, which meansmy attendant is tall, possibly male. Maybe Max himself, if they’ve deemed me a high-priority prisoner. Still, they’ve left me unshackled and unharmed—why?—and though I’ve been given neither bed nor blanket, I have access to water from the sink.
There’s no electricity in here; no outlets, no wires. But there must be cameras hidden somewhere, watching my every move. There are two drains: one in the sink, and one underneath the toilet. There’s one square foot of window—likely bulletproof glass, maybe eight to ten centimeters thick—and a single, small air vent in the floor. The vent has no visible screws, which means it must be bolted from inside, and the slats are too narrow for my fingers, the steel blades visibly welded in place. Still, it’s only an average level of security for a prison vent. A little more time and clarity, and I’ll find a way to remove the screen and repurpose the parts. Eventually, I’ll find a way to dismantle everything in this room. I’ll take apart the metal toilet, the flimsy metal sink. I’ll make my own tools and weapons and find a way to slowly, carefully disassemble the locks and hinges. Or perhaps I’ll damage the pipes and flood the room and its adjoining hallway, forcing someone to come to the door.
The sooner they send someone to my room, the better. If they’ve left me alone in my cell this long, it’s been for their own protection, not my suffering. I excel at hand-to-hand combat.
I know myself. I know my capacity to withstand complicated physical and mental torture. If I wanted to, I couldgive myself two—maybe three—weeks to forgo the poisoned meals and survive on water alone before I lost my mind or mobility. I know how resourceful I can be, given the opportunity, and this—this effort to contain me—must be exhausting. Great care went into selecting these sounds and meals and rituals and even this vigilant lack of communication.
It doesn’t make sense that they’d go to all this trouble for treason. No. I must be in purgatory for something else.
I rack my brain for a motive, but my memories are surprisingly thin when it comes to Max and Evie. Still forming.
