Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Then it creaks open. “1025 …?” comes a whisper.
Kaleb swings his legs over the edge of the bed, stands up still clutching his blanket. “987?” he whispers back.
“Tonight’s the night, man.”
Kaleb stares at the indistinct shape of 987 at the door, all shadow. “I … I told you I don’t think—”
“Don’t be stubborn, dude, this is our only chance. We—”
“It’s … It’s not that I’m being stubborn. I just feel like …” Kaleb sighs. “Aren’t we treated well? We’re fed. Cared for. We even have doctors when we’re sick or injured.”
“I swear, if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here myself …”
“No.” Kaleb hugs his blanket tighter, leans against the cold wall. “I don’t want to go, and I don’t want you to go, either.”
A number of measured breaths come from 987, filling the room. Finally, he lets out a mocking snort. “You’re just scared.”
Kaleb frowns in the dark.
“You’re clutching your blanket like a baby,” 987 goes on. “You’re forty years old. You’re a grown-ass man, and—”
“I’m not forty.” Kaleb frowns. “Not yet, I don’t think.”
“1025, I’m not kidding, if you don’t drop that baby blanket and come with me right now …”
Footsteps scuffle outside. Another voice comes, noticeably deeper even when whispering. “What’s taking so long?”
“1025’s got cold feet.”
Kaleb frowns. “I never had warm feet. I … I didn’t agree to this, to any of this. 987, please, I don’t want you to be harmed. You could get into a lot of trouble if you—”
“For fuck’s sake,” mumbles the newcomer at the door.
987 changes his approach, coming into the room, stopping in front of Kaleb. He puts a hand on Kaleb’s shoulder and the other gently on his chest. “Man, we’ve been through a lot, you and I. You’re scared. That’s fine. Maybe deep down, so am I. This could go all wrong. But I can’t live another day down here wasting my life, I just can’t. I need to live for something. I need to make all my years of life count. You get me? Just remember, I will always have your back, and I will always be there for you, whether it’s here, out there, or somewhere in between …” He brings his face close. “Remember that bakery? San Diego? Can you picture it? You and me in a pair of matching bowties and suspenders, polka-dot aprons, stupid-ass hats, baking together all day long? Just imagine the aroma, the sweet and delicious aroma … Isn’t that the fucking dream, man?”
Kaleb is suddenly taste-testing sugary sweets in his mind, imagining that lovely life in intoxicating detail. Can he actually remember being in a real bakery? Is he fishing some long-lost memory out of the deep recesses of his heart?
“C’mon,” grunts the guy still at the door—Blood 77, most likely. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Well?” asks 987, apparently using compassion to convince Kaleb to join them, struggling to sound patient. “Ready to get outta here? To go and grab that dream with me? Please don’t say no. Don’t make me go out of here all on my own.”
Kaleb thinks about Raya. He thinks about playing violin for her again. He thinks about the dream that lulls him to sleep every night—as well as wakes him up like a nightmare every morning. He thinks about the pale, blue-eyed face of the angel who saved him from the fire that took his family.
Suddenly, he’s fighting back tears. “I’m … I’m sorry.”
Even in the darkness, Kaleb can see the disappointment on 987’s face. Or perhaps it’s a feeling, communicated somehow in the silence that follows his small, weak words.
“Alright,” says 987, accepting it. But then: “Sorry to do this to you.”
Kaleb is about to ask what.
Then he is grabbed at once, wrapped up in his own blanket he’s clutching, and flung over a shoulder. The movement is so fast, he can barely process what’s happened until he’s already being hauled out of his cell. His second attempt at protesting is quickly and efficiently silenced when something is stuffed into his mouth—a rag, a sock, a part of his blanket, it is a mystery. He is wrapped so tightly that he can’t move his arms, hanging over 987’s shoulder, his face beating against his captor’s back with every hurried step. He can’t see where they’re going, can’t see who’s with them, knows nothing.
When light finally touches his eyes, he discovers only part of his face is covered by the blanket. Where are they? Perhaps closer to the cafeterias? The showers? They move fast down the corridors, changing directions, Kaleb sometimes picking up a hissing of words from someone nearby. Has everyone gathered already? 77 and his muscled friend 100? The loud 303 and his girlfriend 304? Did anyone else come into the plan, too?
Suddenly he is set down on his feet, yet 987 keeps him held closely against him. Kaleb tries to spit out the unidentified gag, but 987 presses a hand over his mouth, says, “It’s for your own good, man, I’m telling you, I’m doing this to save your life.”