Her eyes widen and he thinks, Bugger it, what did I say? I’m making sense, aren’t I? Because that’s another symptom. He has them memorized, all the unexperienced signs that could pop up and say hello at any given moment. Like disorganized speech—more colorfully known as word salad—where what one believes one is saying has little in common with what one actually says. His doctor doubts Max will ever have that, because his thoughts aren’t truly disorganized thoughts, not the way they could be, just, well, not exactly orderly. Organized but not orderly.
“The cell phones,” she says. “Of course.” Then a blazing smile. “You’re brilliant.”
Why yes, yes I am, thank you for recognizing that, even if it wasn’t what I meant at all. No, of course it was. Because: I. Am. Brilliant.
“Yes, the mobiles,” he says. “If we can get to them, we can make contact. Did you bring one?”
She shakes her head. “You?”
Me? No, I don’t own a mobile. Not anymore. Who would I call? Ah, yes. My friends. Perhaps my best friend, Justin. No, wait … Justin wants nothing to do with me. He’s made that quite clear. And I’m not sure my other mates would take my calls. Not after “the incident.”
No need for a mobile, then, not when I sit in the bloody house all day, reading and studying and pretending I’ll go to uni soon. Of course I will. That’s what Mum says. Just relax, Maximus. There’s no rush. Take some time off. Make sure the meds are working this time.
You want to go out, Max? I’ll take you anywhere you like. By yourself? Oh, Max, I don’t think that’s wise. Not yet. Yes, yes, it’s been three months without an episode, but still …
But still …
“Max?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t bring mine either. I’m sure someone did, though. We’ll look for a rear door first. That will be plan B.”
“Plan B? Or plan C?” A smile, not really for him, just relief at having plans, but he’ll take it anyway.
“We’ll make it plan B.” He looks toward the door. “Do you hear anything?”
“A couple of minutes ago. Nothing since.”
“Good. Off we go, then.”
CHAPTER 9
Find the back door. Find the cell phones. Back door. Cell phones.
I mentally repeat that mantra as I lead Max down the hall.
I take a better look at the warehouse now as we walk. There are, of course, no windows. Distraction-free, as Aimee promised. Which also means escape-route-free, except for those doors. The locked, thick steel doors. I just pray the rear one won’t be as thick.
I have no idea where I’m heading. We’re presuming the second exit is literally a back door—in the opposite direction of the front one. But it could be at the side, so I’m trying to stick to the edges. The building is a rectangle, which should make the layout obvious, but, like I thought earlier, whoever designed it must have decided a grid pattern of halls and rooms is too easy. Boring. Let’s have some fun!
Halls run maybe twenty feet, past two or three doors, and then end at another corridor. Max and I will head down that one to find a branching corridor, seemingly leading to more rooms, and then it’ll end too. I have no idea if I’m at the far side of the building or not because there are no windows.
And let’s talk about the rooms. So many rooms. Half seem to be locked. At the rate I’m passing doors, I’m going to guess there are at least twenty rooms on this floor alone.
Either I’m turning down the third hall … or I’ve circled back and I’m turning down the first. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. Every wall is beige. The flooring is office linoleum. The doors are standard-issue, with no numbers or other markings. I began to wish I’d brought a pen or something to mark the corners as we turned them so we didn’t circle back.
When I whisper that to Max, he says, “I’m counting doors and keeping track.” One step ahead of me. I’m lucky to have him. I really am.
The sounds that sent us into hiding seem to have moved on, never actually coming our way. The one noise I listened for most, I didn’t hear: gunfire. Yes, that’s what I listen for, as I move down the hall, the sounds not of rescue but of more death.
You don’t know Maria and Lorenzo are dead.
Sure, they might have survived the bullets. Only to bleed out on the floor while we race around, helpless and hopeless.
Aren’t you Little Miss Sunshine?
Used to be. Not anymore. Sorry.
The thing is, as horrible and selfish as it might be, I tell myself they’re dead. I have to, or how can I justify creeping through these halls, looking for an exit, while they’re dying a hundred feet away?
I think of Maria. The girl with the reassuring smile and the defiant T-shirt.
Dying alone.
Like the Porters.
No, the Porters didn’t die alone. They perished together, watching their life partner die with them, both thinking of their child, their only child, in the house with killers, perhaps about to follow them into death and they wouldn’t live long enough to know if she survived or shared a cold grave with them.
Little Miss Sunshine …
I think it’s that internal sarcasm that actually keeps me going, keeps me from thinking of the Porters and Maria and Lorenzo and bottoming out right there in the hall. Wallow in the horror of their fates and then slap myself out of it with self-mockery. Whatever gets you through the night. Or through the semi-dark halls with armed killers lurking around the corner.