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“What does it do to the mice?”
“Pickles them.”
I turned away from the video.
The image of those poor, innocent creatures just following instinct, hunger driving them to something they thought was good, has stayed with me all these years.
“GOAT,” Cam says. I look at the board game we are playing. “I turned your MOAT into GOAT. Five points.”
The G is at the beginning of the word. I look down at my game letter tiles and reach for two of them.
“FLOAT,” I say, setting the L over the G and the F in front of it. “Seven – no, eight points!” I really enjoy this game Cam brought out from one of the cabinets. Scrabble is fun. Jason and I played endless hours of it over the years. Malcolm was more of a card player, teaching me Euchre and Rummy. Poker was strictly forbidden.
Rudy never liked games. He preferred to go on long drives and listen to music.
Cam’s mouth purses as he studies the board, then grins.
“GLOAT.” He counts his points. “Nine points.”
“You’re so much better at this than I am.”
“Practice. Just lots of practice.”
His phone buzzes.
“I didn’t know phones worked down here.”
“Special phone.” He stands abruptly, walking across the big living room, disappearing behind a door. I haven’t investigated this space yet, but I assume that’s his bedroom.
Bedroom.
I shiver with anticipation.
And then I yawn.
He returns suddenly, glaring at his phone.
“What time is it?” I ask, my eyelids heavy.
“Five p.m.”
“Time feels strange.”
“The lighting system is designed to give us a simulation of regular light patterns, but you’re tired because you’re still recovering from the trauma.”
I go numb and blank at the wordtrauma.
My breath stops.
My body is a piece of concrete.
The walls close in.
I imagine two hundred feet of earth pressing down on my head.
And then, I really cannot breathe.
Rotten blood fills my nose, the scent cloying and sick. Cam watches me, concern deepening in his eyes.
