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Arid had always been a curious child, that was one thing he was certain of. The Caretakers must have known even then, as he was immediately placed in Mid-Level Training. He found great pleasure in thinking of the ways their faces must’ve twisted, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled downwards. Often he mused on the different ways they might have truly expressed their confusion- had they been able to- as he laid awake at night, his small bed pressed against the wall of a room he shared with seven other boys.
He was currently sitting on the thin mattress of his metal bed frame, which was covered in even thinner sheets, reading through one of his school books. The topic was lost on him, however, for as his eyes swept across the pages, his mind was lost. With a sigh, he simply marked the current page and closed the book together with a soft thud. He enjoyed reading, but often his mind could not stay on the topic at hand, always finding new ideas that pricked him to no end, until he could only find peace by experimentation. It was not uncommon, really, for someone like him to have trouble focusing. The Caretakers said he was a “Schiz”. Being a Schiz meant it was harder for him to focus, and often led to him to ending conversations that had no clear correlation to the beginning. A Schiz meant that they were more hostile than others, more paranoid, and more deluded than others, they had trouble socializing, and also had a much higher chance of hurting others and themselves. At least, that’s what the Caretakers told them- as did anyone else inside and around The Home.
The Home was his room, the kitchen, playground, and anywhere else included in the block-long property of the building. He’d heard others call it an ‘orphanage’ or ‘institution’, but when he had asked they simply told him that this was Home- The Home, for people like him. What were people like him, Schizes? This Caretaker had been silent for quite some time before responding that, no, only people on his Mid-Level were Schizes, people like him didn’t have a family.
“What’s a family?” he asked. “Nothing important,” she responded much quicker than before, “They are groups with shared blood, nothing more.” He’s never seen those others since.
Lost, a TV show he’d seen before. Perhaps they were lost? Did they even have the ability to survive in such conditions? A Caretaker had told him before that it wasn’t real. But then again, this particular Caretaker had been spying on him, placing cameras and peepholes in places he thought Arid wouldn’t think to look. He looked, of course, and always made sure to carry a roll of scotch tape to place over any cameras or holes he’d find. His thoughts would’ve continued to wander, had he not heard the pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. Turning his head he saw one of the seven boys, Michael, he remembered. Michael hadn’t talked to him much for the past two weeks, only sending him sideways glances as his hand would twitch, from what he didn’t know, which bothered him to no end. The boy stopped just a few feet short of his bed, close enough to speak with, far enough to run.
“PL-Day,” Arid said to him, “I know.” He saw the boy become still, eyes darting across him in a somewhat panicked state. Perhaps he knew the Caretaker that was watching him, or maybe he was watching him too? He had more access to their bathrooms and beds, after all. He’d been placing things on his bed, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Of course! How could he forget to search his bed, when he was in such danger?
Michael hummed, his hand twitching again. Arid resisted the urge to yank the hand forward to inspect it as he stood. Michael stepped back, turned on his foot, and sprinted down the stairs with loud thuds. He stood quietly in the room for a few more seconds, carefully shifting his eyes from object to object. Taking out his roll of scotch tape, he ripped off a piece and carefully stuck it over a crack beside the door frame. Nodding to himself, he turned and walked down the creaky wooden stairs that led toward the main room of The Home.
The main room of The Home was very large, like one of those gyms you would see in the movies that played on the TV. It had a smooth wooden floor and high windows were sunlight would often peek in while they played, never quite touching them, however. There was dirt and cracks throughout the walls and floors from all the children that had stampeded through before them. The Caretakers often called them there for emergencies, like devastating storms, or for Welcoming days, when new arrivals would be introduced and placed with their respective Levels. There was one day, however, where they would be called for a day entirely different: PL-Day, also known as Provided Livelihood Day.
Provided Livelihood Day- or needle day, as some others referred to it- was a day when each Level was called down to receive their yearly injection. The injection was given to them in order to maintain their health and stability. Without their injection, they would become extremely ill and incurable. When they became ill, they would be sent away through hospital to hospital, until they reached a specially built one in the forest. When they reached the forest, they would remain there indefinitely. That is what The Caretakers had always told them, each PL-Day and each time one of them had questioned their injections. With this in mind, Arid couldn’t help but think that the others had noticed odd things as well, such as the colours.
Different Levels were separated and sat in rows, leaving one Caretaker to inject each Level with a different coloured serum; his Level, for example, had green injections. He had often wondered why each level had different coloured injections, if they all supposedly got the same serum, but he had been directed away from the topic each time he brought it up to the Caretakers. Another oddity he had noticed was the way each Level behaved a few weeks before they got their injection.
Each Level had distinct traits and labels, and the weeks before their injections often made those traits more prominent. The First-Level members, Essions, became quieter, distant, and lost appetite- he would also see black bandages across their arms or legs at times. An Atis from High-Level would either eat too much or too little, making themselves sick to their stomachs, even as they stared at themselves in full length mirrors, in all sickly glory. Tenhypes, Third-Levels, couldn’t stay still and would often jump from topic to topic, losing their place as their mind strayed away in each conversation. Mid-Levels, with Schizes such as himself, had those who became more paranoid, unfocused, and deluded- according to what the Caretakers said, plus his own observation of the last few weeks. Xiets, those in Fourth-Level, acted more nervous, more reclusive, often not speaking to the others, even those in their own Level. Those in the Low-Level, Tisms, only did certain things or became infatuated with one thing- they all had vastly varying needs, interesting enough, and never really stayed more than a few weeks at a time, coming mostly in pairs with the occasional three or even rarer four. Nias of the Last-Level seemed drowsier, less coherent, and grew dark circles under their eyes from lack of sleep- which he only knew because Carter-Michie had not slept for three straight days last year, making his face reminiscent of a raccoon's.
It was actually quite terrifying, waking up in the middle of the night for water, only to have an eighty pound nine-year-old spring onto his chest with wide, terrified hazel eyes. The springs from his ratty old mattress pushing into his back, combined with the cold air and warm, rancid breath of the other brushing against his cheek, made for a very unpleasant evening. Even more so when the boy stayed perched on his chest for another thirty to forty minutes.
Still, he couldn’t forget his observations, as insignificant as they may have been. Even as he sat next to Marcus- who leaned away from any sort of contact on either side of him- his thoughts returned to the injections, The Caretakers, and even Michael with his distance. It ate at his mind, poking and prodding like any other idea that would befall him, and wouldn’t leave him be until his curiosity was satisfied. Just what was in those injections? Why did they have to take them? Why did the others act so odd? And where did the others- the sick ones, the Tisms- go, and why didn’t they have a blood group?
A sharp call of his name broke him out of his musings, if only for a second. He looked up, seeing a Caretaker standing above him, med kit in hand. Each Caretaker looked relatively the same, despite their hair or eye colour, even their faces seemed the same. A Caretaker’s uniform primarily consisted of plain gray scrubs, nursing shoes, and the occasional brown or black hair tye. One thing each shared, however, no matter their skin tone or, was the plain expression that marred their features. No matter the crying fits a child may have thrown, or the insults or pranks, their eyes told nothing. Of course, their eyebrows may have furrowed, lips quirking upwards and downwards, but their eyes remained unchanging. Any emotion that they could’ve shown, should’ve shown, was either masked or non-existent. Still, it was amusing to see the masks they formed in front of others, seemingly fooling them all.
The Caretaker standing before him continued to stare, using her eternal patience as she waited for him to hold out his arm. She couldn’t make him take it by force unless he was throwing a fit, as that would make her look awful in the eyes of the children. As this thought passed through him, he had an idea. And as he thought that, a line from one of their winter movies rang out in his skull, “An awful idea.” Yes, Arid had a wonderful, awful idea.
“No.” he said blankly, and The Caretaker paused, eyebrows furrowed, eyes saying nothing. The other boys behind and beside him- Melissa had been transferred three months ago- sat still and quiet. The rest of the room continued with their noise.
The Caretaker knelt down beside him, med kit still in hand. “You’ll get sick,” she told him, “Then you’ll have to get transferred far away, over and over again, until you reach the specialized facility in the forest.”
“I know.” he tried to swallow the tingles of nervousness. No one who had been transferred out had ever returned. There were no letters, no calls, and certainly no visits. The Caretakers insisted it was due to the sickness, but their explanations didn’t soothe his curiosity. Something was being hidden from them, and he intended to find out what. Whether it was entirely for his curiosity, however, remained to be seen.
“Okay then,” she said, “Alright, return to your bedroom with the rest of your Level in six minutes.” She continued to give injections to the rest of his Level, and he sat alone with a chilled fear in his blood and churning unease in his stomach.
He looked down at the wooden floor beneath him, idly running his fingers over the creases in his jeans. She had been indifferent- as always- so perhaps he wasn’t the first one to calmly deny an injection, which also meant others had been transferred out without his Level knowing. It wasn’t a surprise, as Levels rarely interacted with one another, so he couldn’t really say he was upset with not saying goodbye to the transfer. Still, it was a bit annoying to be completely out of the loop with this kind of information. Sighing, he flexed his fingers and traced the veins on his left wrist. He had refused his injection, something no one in his Level had ever done before. It was terrifying, not knowing where exactly he would go when he was transferred, or even when he would be transferred- or even how sick he would actually get before they had to send him off! Or would they send him off right after injections? There were many unanswered questions, and though that amplified his terror, it also set a fire of curiosity spreading throughout his entire being. He would know, finally, and discover what exactly The Caretakers were hiding from them.
Determination firmly set in his mind, he stood with his Level and followed them to their bedroom. Away from the injections, and away what had once been his only option.
The light shined through the window curtains, brushing against the floor and metal bedpost, layering it with warmth. With the warmth came the feeling of satisfaction and direction, each ray both unseen and clearly visible to his eyes. The curtains closed and the warmth faded, leaving the cold unease to settle in his skin and bones, no way to retrieve the warmth and safety the window brought.
“You said no.” Blue eyes stared back at him, each boy on their bed. Jamie was small, almost the youngest in their group at age eight, and his hair was the same as most: messy and unkempt. Truthfully, he didn’t pay much attention to how others looked, finding their reactions and motivations much more intriguing. Still, something could be said about Jamie, as he seemed to catch his attention each time. There was something about his eyes, big and blue, staring at everything he possibly could. He often followed The Caretakers closely, always observing and searching, but for what Arid wasn’t quite sure.
“Yes,” he responded, “I need to know.” The other continued to stare, almost analyzing him.
Jaime nodded. “You missed one,” he said, pointing to a crack next to the other’s bedside. “You tape them.”
He looked, and sure enough, there was an exposed crack next to his bed. Taking out a roll of scotch tape, he mentally reprimanded himself. The Caretaker had been watching him, fooled him once more, and knew he could do it again. He cut off a piece of tape and hastily put it over the crack.
“Which Caretaker is watching us?” Matthew asked, seated on the floor beside Maxwell’s bed. While Matthew had always preferred the rigid floors, Maxwell hated the invisible grime that coated it. Both boys were very strange, often sticking together throughout the day, he personally thought it was due to them sharing their age and height.
Maxwell shook his head, “It’s the morning Caretaker- the one that takes us to breakfast, remember? And he only watches Arid, the rest of us are safe.” He had a good memory, for that Arid was thankful, as he didn’t want to explain the situation to Matthew again.
Callum began to pace. He’d always been a worrier, as well as slightly protective over the rest of the Level. He was, after all, the oldest. “You don’t need to know everything.” A pulse of indignation ran through him, “I do.”
“Why?” The question was much more than it seemed. It wasn’t simply, “Why do you have to know everything?” It was, “Why did you have to be like this? Why are you not afraid? Why did you have to go?”
He didn't have an answer. Countless nights spent lying awake with nothing but the monotone buzz of the air conditioner to keep him company; days upon days of wandering the hallways with blurred memories and a curious fire ignited in his core. He’d wasted so much time questioning why, bending and breaking the conclusions, revising and revising and revising until all that was left was broken strings that led nowhere. There was no answer to why, and it infuriated him to no end. Every question had an answer, every problem a solution, and to know nothing fully truthful about The Home set him ablaze. He was close, so very close, and the answers that he so desired would be given to him- his rejection had guaranteed it. He would leave The Home and finally be satisfied. Still, he didn’t answer Callum. He could, of course, say it was simply in his nature, and that the knowledge of being so close to the conclusion of the story kept him from fear. He could tell them that his blood felt too cold and too hot, fearing the unknown while still burning with determination.
“I am afraid,” he wanted to say, “I know everything and nothing, and even still I am afraid.” He stared back at the other, the room filled with apologetic silence and yearning. “I forgive you,” he wanted to hear. Despite being in the same Level, the boys weren’t very close, save for Matthew and Maxwell. Still, Callum had watched over them when fear came in the form of tapes and silence, had sterilized sheets and pillows when dirt and dust had brushed against them, had said nothing when followed and scrutinized by big blue eyes or gnawed on by brown, and said everything to coax the untouchable. And here Arid was, leaving him and everything he’d done. Guilt flowed through him like a slow poison, the snake bite now infected and swollen, contrasting from the needle prick it first was. He had chosen to walk the desert with bare essentials, and could only wait for his immune system to keep up, this was, after all, only the first hurdle.
Callum walked back to his bed and looked up at the old clock hanging above it. The quiet stretched on for minutes. He turned back to the door, “Dinner time.” And they lined up, Sammy in the front, then Jaime, Carter-Michie, Matthew, Maxwell, Michael, and Callum at the end. Youngest to oldest, the same as always. The other boys began to walk out, Callum turning to look at Arid momentarily, “You coming?”
A small sense of relief filled him and he stood from his bed, nodding. Looking around the room, he made a note that there were no exposed cracks, and began to follow the older boy out into the hallway. He let his fingers slide against the wall as they walked, the roughness of the wall sending vibrations through his fingertips, only to be interrupted by the smoothness of the wooden frame of the window. Sending a look outside he spotted another Level, two boys and two girls played with a red ball, lined up in a way that made it easier for them to catch and throw to one another. A younger boy watched them play, eyes darting back and forth as the ball moved soundlessly through the air, a breeze running across his hair as his back faced most of the wind’s insistence. He rubbed his shoe upon the grass, dirt smearing and clinging to his shoe, and took a step forward, intercepting the ball from reaching one of the curly haired girls. Looking up, the boy was met with exasperation and a tasteful disdain from the four. Quiet voices becoming indistinguishable and faint as they melted into a singular call, motioning the fifth away as he returned their joy and sat alone by the far wall of The Home.
His fingertips returned to the rugged wall and eyes turned away silently. He reached the stairway with Callum, stepping down the creaky stairs without a word. The stairs were wooden and creaky, about every few steps there was a small platform to turn to the next set. On every platform there was also a door, almost every door led to a different floor, which held two rooms for two different Levels. There were seven doors. On the third floor there were Nias and Tisms, on the second floor Xiets and Schizes, first held Tenhypes and Atises, and then ground level floor with Essions. There was a second door on the Ession floor, but they had all been forbidden from opening it, the only ones with the key to it were The Caretakers anyway. Below ground held the last two doors, which led to the Main Room and the Meal Room. He didn’t count the doors leading outside, as they didn’t lead to another room from The Home, unless you were entering. Those doors were located at the end of the Main Room, which showed an long, straight stairway going upwards.
After a minute or two they arrived at the Meal Room, the line of Schiz boys only a few feet ahead of them. Joining them, Callum and Arid entered the Meal Room. It was large, almost as much as the Main Room, but instead of wooden floors and high windows it had a black rubber floor and sealed walls. There were tables and benches scattered throughout, some pushed together as for Levels to stick together, some pushed away from the others. The line of boys went up to the opening that led to the kitchen, food on display and paper trays stacked at the beginning. They each grabbed a tray and held it out for The Caretaker, pointing to which meal they wanted. Today’s choices were peanut butter or turkey sandwiches, cucumbers or celery, apples or pears, and milk. Sammy had his usual of picking the first thing he sees, Jaime picking peanut butter, cucumbers, and a pear. The other boys went and chose their meals, until heading to a table only a few feet away, their usual spot. Arid grabbed a tray and proceeded to grab a peanut butter sandwich, celery, and an apple. After grabbing his milk and seeing Callum grab his, he walked with the other to their table.
Seated on the edge and farthest away from the others was Carter-Michie, a few feet across and to the right of him sat Michael, already picking at his food. Matthew and Maxwell were the closest and seated together, leaving a big gap of space between then and Carter-Michie. Sammy and Jaime sat in front of them, Michael on their right. Arid took a seat next to Michael, making sure his feet didn’t touch the boy in front of him. Callum took a seat in the big gap of space the duo left, making sure to be close enough to Carter-Michie to speak to him, but far enough away to avoid contact. Before he could start on his sandwich, the Callum reached over and took it, giving him his Turkey sandwich.
“I know you don’t like peanut butter,” he explained, “You don’t have to leave me the turkey just because I like it better.” Arid nodded, and though he felt a bit displeased, he also felt a comforting strike of normality. Leaving Callum his favourite sandwich felt like another wordless apology, to leave him one last favourite. The other boy had always switched their food, however, when he did. It was annoying that he wouldn’t just accept this last try, but soothing that nothing had changed, Just as the line of youngest to oldest, the same as always. One last bit of familiarity, perhaps this was Callum’s apology to him.
He bit into his sandwich after unwrapping it, placing the plastic wrap on the side of his tray. The sandwich was filled with orange cheese and thick pieces of turkey, lettuce and tomato in between. It really was good, if a bit dry. Unfortunately, mayonnaise was one of his least favourite condiments, tying with ketchup. Mustard was scarce, however, when they weren’t serving hot dogs. He decided to sip his milk to compensate, watching the Meal Room’s occupants for what could’ve been the last time. It was strange, knowing that he would soon leave the only place he had ever called home. Or was it home? The TV in their bedroom- each Level had their own bulky, staticy device- only received certain channels, which was why they couldn’t see channel nine. Some of the shows he would find often depicted “home” as a subjective concept, different for each person, and they certainly never mentioned “The Home”. Titles were far different feelings, it seemed. Though perhaps this wasn’t the best time to ponder the meaning and relation of a simple word.
The Essions were speaking again, as were the Atises, and eating more as well. Tenhypes and Xiets had been relaxed for quite some time now, strange, considering how fidgety they were this morning- it was nearly unbearable. The three Tisms were eating, picking, and playing with their food, it wasn’t too odd or out of the ordinary since they were small- which was strange in and of itself, since the other Levels had no one younger than seven. His table had reverted back into a more stable, relaxed stance. Matthew and Maxwell were eating their meals, both having peanut butter, celery, and a pear. Matthew was eating sloppily as Maxwell seemed very careful to not let even the smallest crumb fall out of his line of site. Michael was currently picking at his food, taking small bites in between. Jaime was spending more of his time observing others than actually consuming his food. Sammy only had a few bites of his meal left, always being quick to eat. Callum had eaten a good portion of his dinner and had moved on to convincing Carter-Michie, who had barely even glanced at his sandwich, to eat.
Carter-Michie never did eat much, almost as little as the Xiets and Essions in their weeks before the injection. It did help when Callum was there, however, as proven by his weight gain during this past year. He often wondered if it was due to his firm avoidance of human contact. The other Schiz didn’t like touch, only allowing The Caretakers to handle him, if only for brief moments during the injections. He did occasionally sit near them, but never seemed completely accepting of it, looking tense and ready to spring away at a moment’s notice. He bit his sandwich, watching Callum carefully scoot himself closer, focusing on keeping the younger boy’s attention on his tray. Turkey was nice.
“You only ate a bit for lunch, you missed breakfast too,” Callum gestured to the uneaten food, “Aren’t you hungry?”
Carter-Michie had his cheek rested against his propped up fist, “I don’t like eating food in the morning, it feels too weird.” Apples were fine, though a bit plastic and chemical tasting at times.
The oldest sighed, “But it’s not the morning. You’re gonna get sick if you don’t. Then people might have to drag you to the infirmary.” It was a separate building across from The Home, but still a part of it.
“D-Drag?” he stuttered, “How many?” Callum shrugged, shifting closer to him, “Could be three, maybe four if you’re lucky. They’d have to drag to out and then into a car, then again when they get there.” Yes, he was quite the clever- but did that really count as clever?- when need be. He looked both disgusted and terrified. “Good luck with not eating, then.”
It only took a few moments for the other to come to the conclusion that he would rather eat than be doomed to human contact, since he picked up his pear after a brief moment of hesitation. It was a success, as not everyday involved Carter Michie actually digesting something. As he pondered and resigned to himself that he would never know why the boy ate so little, Arid’s eyes strayed over the shoulder obscuring his view and focused on the wall. There, nearly directly in front of him, laid a freely seen crack. The Caretaker could be watching again, but from that far? Perhaps he wasn’t, but then again, he could’ve foreseen Arid’s conclusion and prepared accordingly. That Caretaker seemed particularly invested in scrutinizing him through the walls.
As he contemplated the likelihood of being spied on during dinner and simultaneously ate said dinner, he forgot to check one of the clocks located on the far side of the wall. A loud, monotonous sound played out of the unseeable speakers in the windows and spread down into the Meal Room. Levels of all shapes and sizes picked up their trays and dumped them in the center garbage bins, before turning and leaving the room in their own sorted lines and clusters. He watched his Level pick up their leftover food and did the same, following them to the already pungent trash bins, and dumped his tray in after the younger boys. They lined up in the same way they did when they were arriving and began the moderate trek back to their bedroom. His fingers trailed against the wall once again, feeling Callum’s presence behind him.
It was finally dark out. After arriving and readying themselves for bed the boys were prepared to sleep. Matthew and Maxwell, as always, had their beds pushed about a foot closer together, and now had their heads on pillows and blankets tangled in their legs, the later more prominent for Matthew. Michael snored lightly, body curled up slightly, across to his right laid Carter-Michie, back turned away from the others. Jaime and Sammy seemed swallowed by the large, thin blankets, drool steadily falling from Sammy’s mouth, little puffs of breath coming from Jaime every few minutes or so. Callum had an arm slung across his face, the other wrapped around his midsection.
Arid sat in his bed silently, the moonlight shining across the floor like silk, occasionally obscured by bugs and leaves. It was somewhat cold, but not unbearably so, his blanket clutched in his hands. It was then that he wondered if he had ever had anything at all. His clothes and shoes were given to him by The Caretakers, just as everyone else. The blanket, bed, and pillows he slept on belonged to The Home, and would surely be left along with the rest of his clothes. The toys- even though he didn’t play with them as often anymore- did not belong to him, either. The thought should have perhaps been terrifying, or even saddening, but he felt nothing. His fire burned to know why, but there was nothing but fickle ashes left in the aftermath. Still, he burned. And then the knob turned.
Snapping his head upwards at the noise he tensed, watching as a shadow slithered inside the bedroom. It moved forward, towards him, silently. He starred as it seemed to turn it’s head in the direction of the other boys on his sides. It moved closer, and whispered his name, “Arid.” He watched it closely. “Your transfer.”
His transfer, now of all times? He anticipated it to be soon, but not in the middle of the night. Still, he was one step away from knowledge, one step away from an unseen victory known only to him, for him. He nodded and stood, pausing to look at the others. They slept soundly, not knowing one of them would be leaving them forever in only a few moments. The thought of leaving brought fear into him, as well as a type of sadness and regret he could not yet recognize properly. The Caretaker stood straighter, turning away and making their way the door, opening and holding it open, gesturing to him. After a moment of hesitation, he followed, leaving the boys ignorant and asleep.
They made their way down the hallways and stairs, until they finally reached the Main Room. Entering, with The Caretaker behind him, he saw no other child there. It was quiet and eerie, the high windows barely providing any lighting during the night, and he felt a hand be placed on his shoulder, pressing lightly.
“This way,” The Caretaker said, the voice deeper and suited for males, “You will be loaded into a truck and wait there until you arrive.”
He nodded, unsure if The Caretaker could see him, but supposed that his silence counted as an appropriate response. Looking around at what he could see of the Main Room, he noticed a light coming from another door on the far side, barely noticeable from the entrances, but easily spotted from the middle of the room’s darkness. He would leave without knowing that, the thought prickling his skin. Regardless of his annoyance, the doors to the outside opened, and revealed the stairs leading upwards. Each step had dirt and scratches, cracks riddled throughout the stone. It seemed like a million years and second going up, and finally he caught sight of a large white truck, parked against the grass. He walked towards it, mud beginning to stain his shoes, he hadn’t even noticed that it had rained. The Caretaker opened the door, just enough for him to be able to slip through.
He breathed in deeply, emotions swirling around inside him, ideas and thoughts pounding into his skull. The boys, The Caretakers, the other Levels, even Melissa and if she had faced this same confusing response. Then he remembered the differences: she had not chosen to come, and he had come willingly.
Pushing off the way his chest clenched just the slightest, breath stuttered and fingers twitching, he focused on his determination to succeed and his thirst for knowledge. His fire burned brightly, overwhelming his skin and making it warm. He grabbed the edge of the truck, making his way inside and lifting his feet off the ground, the cold metal digging into his hands. The door closed behind him with a slam before he could even turn back to give The Home one last glance. Alone and quiet, he sat against the walls of the truck, feeling the hushed rumble of the engine start, the truck beginning to move in unknown directions and patterns.
His determined fire was the only thing that soothed him.