behind me.
“Nice catch,” he teases.
“Nice throw,” I retort.
Adam scoops up the rest of his tools from the desk and retreats to the back of the room. Packing, I assume. I snatch up the filter from the floor and unzip the backpack, keeping an eye on Adam’s back. I pull the machine out of my pocket and dump it in the bag as well, then zip the backpack up before he has time to turn around.
“So… is there a, um, facility in here?” I stutter. “I have to… you know…”
Adam whips his head around, his brows creased in confusion. “Huh? Oh. Oh! Yeah, of course. Back through those doors, to the left. Sign with a bald person in a dress on the door, you can’t miss it. Let me just gather the rest of this stuff up, and I’ll meet you there when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks blazing. I hoist my irrationally heavy backpack high on my shoulders as I hurry into the hall. I can’t help but feel like my guilt is what’s weighing it down.
I charge down the hall and into the bathroom. It’s long and narrow with several walled-off stalls on one side of the room, and a row of sinks on the other. On the far end is a half-sized window at head height. Not the easiest escape route, but it’ll do.
I hop into one of the stalls. When I emerge, I brace my hands on either side of a sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror above it.
My hair sticks out in all directions, barely contained by my hair elastic anymore. My cheeks are still pink and there’s dirt on the left side of my face, as well as down my neck. There is a rip in the fabric of my t-shirt near my collarbone and faint red scratches run up both of my arms. I run the tap and gently wash my hands—they still feel a little raw—making sure to scrape out the dirt from beneath my fingernails. I splash some cool water on my face, careful to avoid my mouth and eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if this water is already semi-filtered, like the tap water at home—not clean enough to drink, but good enough to wash in. Still, better safe than sorry.
I gently press on the side of my head where I hit it against the platform in the tunnel and wince when I feel the lump there. When I shake out my hair from its ponytail, my dark brown strands stay flattened in that spot. I carefully lift up a lock and realize that the hair there is slicked down with blood. I hadn’t even realized I’d been bleeding.
I pool some water in my hands and gingerly wash the blood out of my hair as best I can. The water runs pink as it swirls down the drain. Fortunately, the cut on my head is shallow and superficial. It doesn’t take long to clean it up.
I try to pull my hair back into a bun, but the bump makes it too painful. Somewhat begrudgingly, I settle for leaving it down in its wild state: wet and flat on one side, tangled and erratic on the other, with a large crimp from my hair elastic running through the middle.
“You look amazing,” I tell my reflection.
I walk over to the window at the far end of the bathroom. It’s about two feet wide and a foot and a half tall—just enough room for me to shimmy through. The window is hinged at the top and shut with a simple latch at the bottom. I twist the lock and the window pops open at an angle.
I unzip my backpack to take a quick inventory. Though the raiders left me the empty canteen, they appear to have taken everything else, including my flashlight. I instinctively groan as I think about how much steel it will take to replace, before remembering that cost isn’t as dire a concern anymore. I secure the machine by tucking it into an interior pocket, then zip the bag closed. I shove it through the open window first, then hike my foot up onto the sink nearest to me and hoist myself up.
Not without difficulty, I squirm through the opening and drop down onto the grass outside. I search around my feet for the backpack, but it’s nowhere to be found.
“Looking for something?”
I spin around to see Adam leaning
“Nice catch,” he teases.
“Nice throw,” I retort.
Adam scoops up the rest of his tools from the desk and retreats to the back of the room. Packing, I assume. I snatch up the filter from the floor and unzip the backpack, keeping an eye on Adam’s back. I pull the machine out of my pocket and dump it in the bag as well, then zip the backpack up before he has time to turn around.
“So… is there a, um, facility in here?” I stutter. “I have to… you know…”
Adam whips his head around, his brows creased in confusion. “Huh? Oh. Oh! Yeah, of course. Back through those doors, to the left. Sign with a bald person in a dress on the door, you can’t miss it. Let me just gather the rest of this stuff up, and I’ll meet you there when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks blazing. I hoist my irrationally heavy backpack high on my shoulders as I hurry into the hall. I can’t help but feel like my guilt is what’s weighing it down.
I charge down the hall and into the bathroom. It’s long and narrow with several walled-off stalls on one side of the room, and a row of sinks on the other. On the far end is a half-sized window at head height. Not the easiest escape route, but it’ll do.
I hop into one of the stalls. When I emerge, I brace my hands on either side of a sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror above it.
My hair sticks out in all directions, barely contained by my hair elastic anymore. My cheeks are still pink and there’s dirt on the left side of my face, as well as down my neck. There is a rip in the fabric of my t-shirt near my collarbone and faint red scratches run up both of my arms. I run the tap and gently wash my hands—they still feel a little raw—making sure to scrape out the dirt from beneath my fingernails. I splash some cool water on my face, careful to avoid my mouth and eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if this water is already semi-filtered, like the tap water at home—not clean enough to drink, but good enough to wash in. Still, better safe than sorry.
I gently press on the side of my head where I hit it against the platform in the tunnel and wince when I feel the lump there. When I shake out my hair from its ponytail, my dark brown strands stay flattened in that spot. I carefully lift up a lock and realize that the hair there is slicked down with blood. I hadn’t even realized I’d been bleeding.
I pool some water in my hands and gingerly wash the blood out of my hair as best I can. The water runs pink as it swirls down the drain. Fortunately, the cut on my head is shallow and superficial. It doesn’t take long to clean it up.
I try to pull my hair back into a bun, but the bump makes it too painful. Somewhat begrudgingly, I settle for leaving it down in its wild state: wet and flat on one side, tangled and erratic on the other, with a large crimp from my hair elastic running through the middle.
“You look amazing,” I tell my reflection.
I walk over to the window at the far end of the bathroom. It’s about two feet wide and a foot and a half tall—just enough room for me to shimmy through. The window is hinged at the top and shut with a simple latch at the bottom. I twist the lock and the window pops open at an angle.
I unzip my backpack to take a quick inventory. Though the raiders left me the empty canteen, they appear to have taken everything else, including my flashlight. I instinctively groan as I think about how much steel it will take to replace, before remembering that cost isn’t as dire a concern anymore. I secure the machine by tucking it into an interior pocket, then zip the bag closed. I shove it through the open window first, then hike my foot up onto the sink nearest to me and hoist myself up.
Not without difficulty, I squirm through the opening and drop down onto the grass outside. I search around my feet for the backpack, but it’s nowhere to be found.
“Looking for something?”
I spin around to see Adam leaning
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