Chapter Text
It’s easier with his eyes closed, putting one foot and then the other on the concrete. He can imagine he is walking home on West 16th Street, the wavering overhead light caused by the sun filtering through intermittent trees. His memory takes in the dull hum of the mechanical system and replaces it with the pulse of cars passing on the road, with the thump-thump as their suspensions hit a pothole at the crosswalk. He lets his body recall the smell of curry as he’d walk by the Masala Fresh food truck that always parked on his block, the lively flower boxes on the buff-colored building on the corner, the cool tickle of the early fall air on his skin—until he’s immersed enough to breathe normally. It’s the only thing that helps when he’s overwhelmed like this, wondering if he will ever have the chance to walk across a wide swath of earth again, limited only by the distance his legs will take him.
When he opens his eyes, the memory splinters. He’s back inside, climbing up the sloping corridor. It’s a continuous spiral, the service track between upstairs, where the world was once on fire, and the bottom of the old missile silo, ten tiers below. The ramp wraps around the housing chambers and offices and the shared spaces in between like the threads on a screw, stranding David between the depths of the silo and the vague gray sky, forever on a continuum between darkness and light.
To his knowledge, David is the only one who takes the ramp to move through the place. It is by far the longest route, with gray concrete walls on one side and dull white walls punctuated by maple veneer doors on the other, someone’s afterthought attempt to bring nature and warmth to this concrete-encased world below grade. Most people take the tight column of stairs in the lightwell, injecting their day with the briefest periods of fatigue like maybe they are doing something besides waiting for the world to turn right-side up again.
David prefers the solitude of the ramp, the only place he is unlikely to encounter a representative of the other twelve families stacked above and below the chamber he now shares with his sister. He sometimes spends hours this way, walking, recalling a place from his old life, imagining his feet treading on the surface of the earth instead of spiraling far below it.
Accustomed as he is to circling up and down alone, it’s something of a shock when David sees someone else, shoulders heaving, head buried in his hands, body slumped against the wall just a few feet up the ramp from the landing at Tier 2. The other man sees David and stands hastily, rubbing his eyes on the sleeve of his blue thermal shirt.
Their eyes meet and David’s next step falters as the man pauses with his hand on the nearest door. There is something unsettling reflected in his red, harried eyes. It feels a bit like looking in the mirror actually, despite there being nothing particularly similar about their appearances. The man nods, almost imperceptibly, and ducks into the office next to him, closing the door behind.
David stops in front of the door. Adhered to the wood-grain surface is a sign that identifies the office as that belonging to the Reentry Coordinator. It’s a room that’s been empty since David arrived in the silo, sitting ominously door-ajar, as though there is no plan for reentry to the world above and therefore never a person in charge of coordinating it.
Now, it seems, the office has an occupant. In the whiteboard under the Reentry Coordinator label—a whiteboard David sometimes enjoys decorating with lewd sketches when he’s feeling particularly restless—a series of tidy block letters spell PATRICK BREWER.
-----
Despite any number of arresting features, Patrick noticed the wings first. Not actual wings—they haven’t descended that far into science fiction, he muses—but glossy, graphic gray-outlined wings across the shoulders of his matte black sweatshirt. He can hear the man pause outside the door, the gap at the bottom darkened by his shadow.
Patrick’s brain ticks through the file: David Rose, mid-30s, lives with his sister Alexis, late 20s, in the chamber next to their parents on Tier 7. Originally from New York. David had an online food and lifestyle blog called Slice of Life, which featured a different pizza restaurant every week along with restaurant reviews, modern art commentary, and personal care articles. His mother Moira was a soap opera star. His father Johnny ran a digital streaming and content service with offices in Silicon Valley. The family has somewhat complicated interpersonal dynamics, or so the file said. Patrick is pretty sure that is Ray Butani’s polite way of saying dysfunctional.
Patrick knows everyone in this silo, Bunker 13, on paper. Knows everyone in all fourteen of Butani’s network of silos in the ten-square-mile area. He’s spent hours with their files, with their faces, learning their names. Names are important upstairs. As people begin to reach out from their separate enclaves, sharing stories of who and where and how they survived, names float from outpost to outpost on the wind, whispers of who is trustworthy and who is dangerous and who tends to play both sides. Upstairs, learning names, learning to attach faces to those names, is a matter of survival. It’s one of the many ways Patrick has learned to navigate this new world. He learned the names of everyone in this bunker before today, his first day here, so that he won’t encounter a single person downstairs who he hasn’t already met on paper.
That’s how he knows, locked in that moment on the ramp, that he has just encountered David Rose.
There’s a soft knock on the door; he doesn’t answer. Instead he rests his forehead on the desk and repeats the same phrases he has been telling himself since Ray assigned him to this job: This job is important. They need help upstairs. I’m good at this. It’s just three hours a day. Every day will get easier. Ray needs this. Ray’s done a lot for me. I’m safe here. Fear is a liar and a construct. I can leave whenever I want. I can leave whenever I want. I can leave whenever I want.
-----
When his knock goes unanswered, David continues on to his original destination, Stevie’s office on Tier 2 at the center of the Operations Center. True to form, she’s playing solitaire with a deck of cards on her desk.
“How’s my favorite operations manager today?” David asks brightly.
“What do you want?” Stevie narrows her eyes.
“What do you mean? I want to see my best friend and share burned tilapia and over-steamed arugula for the sixth time this week. Is something wrong with that?”
“You want something,” she says.
She doesn’t push it yet; she knows better. Stevie doesn’t let most people in her space, much less in her head, but David has been the exception to the rule pretty much from the first day in the bunker when she shared her last little bit of weed with him in the storage room at the bottom of the silo.
She lays down three cards from the stack in her hand and David takes the ace of clubs off the top, putting it next to the ace of spades in front of him and stacking the two of clubs from one of Stevie’s other piles on top of it. Stevie lets him move cards around as she deals out three more, waiting patiently for him to spill whatever he’s here to talk about.
“So I heard a rumor,” David says, sliding his fingers nervously along the edge of the desk.
“Oh?” Stevie asks, suppressing a smile at having won this round of outwaiting each other.
“Are they going to start letting people upstairs?” David asks, voice low like maybe nobody else knows about the man on the ramp.
“It’s been discussed,” Stevie hedges.
She moves the five of clubs onto the six of hearts, freeing up a column and turning over the next card at the top.
“And?” he prods, poking her calf under the desk with the toe of his sneaker. She nudges back a little, pushing him off. He bumps her with his foot again harder just to do it, and she glares at him. He smirks a little, but puts his feet back under his chair.
“And someone will be here for a few hours every day to train people that want to go,” she says evenly, like it’s not the biggest thing that has happened since they locked themselves down here.
“Someone from where?” David asks. He can’t think of another time someone new arrived in the silo in the entire four years he has been here. The staff occasionally goes between the silos, but never past the security perimeter—or so he thought.
Stevie gives him a long look, and then her eyes seem to light from within. He can tell she knows. She’s not sure what she knows, but she knows there’s more to this line of questioning.
“It’s someone who lives up there,” she says with a casual shrug, refusing to give more intel than is asked for.
“People live up there?” he asks, forgetting to be discreet.
She puts the king of diamonds on the appropriate ace pile and turns it over before she looks up at him.
“Did you think you all were going to be the first off the ark?” she asks, eyebrow raised.
“No,” David says, swallowing the word and tucking his hands under his thighs.
David feels a little silly for thinking they would be, because of course they’re not. Out of the network of silos, Bunkers 13 and 14 are by far the nicest. They were the last to be hit with rations. They have the largest living units, the most amenities, the greatest stockpile of food and water and even delicacies. And it’s all intentional, because these are the residents who could most afford to vanish underground to a bunker skinned in opulence so they wouldn’t have to watch as the world was engulfed. As much as everyone has grown weary with life in the silo, there is a general sense that it’s better than whatever they might encounter upstairs.
“So how many people live up there?” he asks.
“Around here, probably less than two hundred.”
“And elsewhere?” David asks.
She opens her mouth to talk and closes it. She looks back down at the cards.
“Honestly, David, since I’m going to be the last to leave, I try not to think about upstairs.”
“I know. Sorry.”
He tries another friendly nudge with his foot. Even though her eyes stay down, she nudges him back lightly.
David’s next question is interrupted by a quick knock on the door frame.
“Hey Stevie, I- Oh. Hi.” It’s the man from the ramp. He has nice . . . everything really, but the first thing David notices is the way his hand grips the door frame hard when he recognizes him, strong and steady.
David stands up quickly from the chair when he sees him. Something about the way the man carries himself makes David want to be face-to-face. He’s surprised to realize he is the taller of the two.
“Patrick, this is David Rose. He’s one of our residents,” Stevie says.
“Hi.” David says the word softly. Patrick gives David a wry smile, like he knows they caught each other trying to deal with their shit alone.
“Patrick,” he says.
“David.”
It’s a firm handshake, but David’s hand wilts when he notices Patrick’s arm. Patrick’s sleeves are pushed up a little, and as he reaches, his arm turns just enough to reveal a thick, dark pink scar that disappears under his sleeve. It’s not a fresh wound, but still new enough that it must have happened since the world upstairs started burning. The skin is still stretched around it. David wonders what happened. Wonders how far up it goes.
Patrick tucks a finger under the hem of his sleeve and tugs it down self-consciously.
“We were actually just talking about you,” Stevie says.
“Were you?” Patrick asks, his voice rising a little. That little raise in pitch takes five years off of him, and David smiles. He’s cute. Very cute.
“Yes. David was curious about your plans for the reentry group,” Stevie offers, like this is a networking event.
“I was?” David sputters, glaring at Stevie and then turning back to Patrick. Patrick’s mouth twitches, and well, it’s a nice mouth, so naturally David is looking at it.
“We’re looking for applicants to do training to come upstairs,” Patrick explains. His eyes are brown, warm and steady. “We’re hoping some people will be tired of living entombed in concrete.” It’s an odd choice of words, David thinks. Entombed. And said with just a little bit of smugness.
“Well that’s fun,” David says, speaking of odd choice of words. Patrick’s mouth twitches again.
“Oh, so much fun,” Patrick replies wryly, studying David in a way that is probing, maybe, but not unkind.
David crosses his arms, and their eyes lock for a long beat. It’s that same feeling again, like he’s looking in a mirror and seeing a reverse copy, familiarity in their contrasts.
A chime sounds from the lightwell announcing dinner is ready.
“We should go while the food is hot. Did you have a question for me?” Stevie asks Patrick as she shuffles the cards and restacks them in a deck.
“I wanted to discuss how soon I can take trainees upstairs. I know we’ve been doing slow reintroductions in the other bunkers, but it’s just hard to teach much without hands-on training. We can talk about it later.”
“Okay. Well, it’s really Ray you have to convince,” Stevie deflects.
“I was hoping for reinforcements.”
It’s a charming smile, and David feels badly for him. Stevie is immune to charm.
“I know it’s your first day here, but I have a feeling we may have different approaches to work,” Stevie replies dryly.
“I gathered that by the, ah, deck of cards,” Patrick snarks. That gets her attention. David’s too.
David studies Patrick while Stevie lets him describe his philosophy on reentry timelines. He has pale skin and curly hair that’s just a little shaggy, more like he’s past-due for a cut than intentionally wearing it long. He looks like someone who in the old world you’d find coaching a youth soccer team, like he’d be the kind of guy fulfilled by that. But the breakdown on the ramp, the scar, living upstairs full-time . . . He’s more complex than he looks, and David wants to figure him out.
David doesn’t know what life is like upstairs. He has heard various stories of fire and famine and a permanently smoky sky. Naturally, it’s a popular source of speculation in the silo. But Stevie is the only person he knows who’s actually been out of the silo, and she won’t say what she’s seen. He wonders if the stories about upstairs have been conflated down here so everyone can pat themselves on the back for a choice well made. It’s not that things are particularly luxurious anymore with the rations, but at least they are safe and breathing clean air.
“You want to join us for dinner?” David hears Stevie ask.
“That’s okay. I’ll eat when I get home.”
“What, do you have something against anemic fish and soggy greens?” David asks.
“Oh no, it’s just that seafood feels a little too fancy for a weeknight,” Patrick replies through a hint of a grin. “Wednesday is usually baked beans straight from the can for me.”
“Yum,” David says in a way that means the opposite. “You know canned foods are laced with BPA.” He doesn’t even know if that’s true. It’s detritus from his old life still lodged in his brain.
“Well you know what they say, David, if the apocalypse won’t get you, the BPA will.”
“I guess we’re doomed either way then,” David says.
Patrick smiles, quick and bright like an arcing electrical current. No one jokes at all anymore, much less about the event that caused the old world to shatter into the new. David apparently has some kind of kink for people who can be flippant about their circumstances. It’s what first drew him to Stevie, and it’s definitely doing something for David now talking to Patrick.
“I thought we were going to dinner?” Stevie can’t help but insert. She’d made no effort to hide her mouth as it dropped open into a little “o” while they volleyed.
“We are,” David says, but he doesn’t turn to leave. “You sure you don’t want to come? Stevie’s buying.”
“I’m sure. It’s just I hear it’s a nice place, and I forgot my dinner jacket, and I’d hate to have to wear one of theirs.”
“You know I’ve probably got something you can borrow if you’re worried this camping chic ensemble is too casual.”
“I’m sorry, are you mocking my clothes?” Patrick asks. David feels so good to be a little less serious for a fucking minute that he forgets to hide his smile.
Patrick is smiling for real now too. Almost. It looks like a smile but the corners of his mouth are curiously turned down. Like everything else about him, it’s a contradiction.
“Well I’m going to eat,” Stevie says, elbowing David. He realizes he’s been staring.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, David,” Patrick says.
“See you around,” David agrees. He turns towards Stevie but looks back, just briefly, and their eyes meet. Patrick gives the faintest of nods, just like he did on the ramp, and turns to go back down the hall the way he came. If Stevie notices David linger to watch him leave, she doesn’t say.
-----
Patrick places his forehead against the cool metal surface of the desk again. The silos make him hot and raise his heart rate. Or maybe it’s David. He’s not sure how long they talked but he could have gone on like that for hours, enjoying the way David’s face changed like quicksilver through every back-and-forth. His voice is dynamic. He has a way of moving that’s lyrical. Patrick feels like he could watch him do something as simple as walk across the room and sit down in a chair and it would be beautiful.
Patrick’s life upstairs is hard. He knows that. He’s lucky, still, because he has everything he needs. But now, presented with a person who is so many things he doesn’t need and yet so many things he desperately wants . . . There’s nothing about David that is practical or beneficial or that will help him survive. Except now he doesn’t understand how he’s survived at all without this feeling. Fuck. His heart is pounding.
“Knock-knock!” a cheerful voice says, swinging open the door, interrupting his thoughts.
“Ray,” Patrick says, surprised, sitting up. “I didn’t know you were planning to stop in.”
“I had to come say hello on your big first day!”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ray’s smile fades as he closes the door to Patrick’s office.
“I know you are just getting settled, but we need to sit down and talk through the new reentry protocol. Will you have time tomorrow?” His voice drops an octave; most of his accent drops with it.
It still gives Patrick chills sometimes when Ray stops talking in exclamation points. It’s something he only does around people who are well acquainted with his shrewd, calculating mind.
“I was planning to set up the Training Center, but I’ll stop by before,” Patrick says.
“Very good. We’ll get it straightened out.”
Ray starts to leave but stops, hand on the door handle.
“I know you find it difficult to be down here,” Ray adds quietly. “Thank you for agreeing to this assignment.”
“Ah, sure. Of course. Just happy to help, Ray.” It’s true enough.
Ray nods, adopts his aw-shucks posture, and leaves the office without closing the door.
Patrick just shakes his head. Patrick has been doing whatever Ray Butani needs for five years, enough time to be enormously fond of him and perpetually exasperated with him in equal measure. They’ve been through a lot together.
For decades, each of Ray’s new business ventures were met with eye rolls by the business community. Eight years ago, when he announced he was entering the doomsday market, Ray’s colleagues roared with laughter. Then the world started burning, and Ray’s little bunker enterprise became the last refuge of the wealthy families who could afford his opportunistic pricing. Ray was the only one still laughing as he happily took their fortunes. Now, the falsely cheerful Ray Butani is a benevolent dictator protecting the lives of almost six hundred people who mocked his vision. Luckily—or sometimes unluckily, Patrick thinks as he scratches idly over the scar up his right arm—he’s Ray’s right hand man.
-----
“So how does one get on this reentry train?” David asks, sitting down with Stevie in the cafeteria, an array of hard surfaces on Tier 1 under a shallow geodesic dome that spans the center of the silo roof. The bombproof plexiglass panels are hazy, or maybe it’s still the sky, but it is the closest thing to the feeling of outside they can get. Around them, leafy crops reach for the stingy light through holes in a hydroponic tube system mounted above fish tanks embedded in the floor. It’s supposed to give the whole area a garden patio setting. David has always thought it in poor taste that people who are forced to eat the same basic diet several times a week have to consume said diet surrounded by its living counterparts, but there’s a lot about the silo that misses the mark in the taste department.
“Well, for starters, one has life skills that might benefit other people,” Stevie says pointedly. He adores her. She’s the only person who doesn’t tiptoe around the bunker like people might shatter if you act normally around them. One of two people now, he amends, thinking of Patrick.
“I have life skills,” David insists, eyes shifting sideways.
“You do? Enlighten me,” she says.
“I have . . . an excellent sense of direction.”
“Oh, well in that case let me go get you an application.”
“I mean, isn’t the whole point of that guy’s job to help people learn skills?”
“That guy?” Stevie asks. “You mean Patrick?” She says it with a sharp “k” sound, like she means to shoot his name right under David’s skin.
“Yes, Patrick. The Reentry Coordinator.” He waves his name away with his hand like he didn’t just spend the last half hour thinking about his mouth. Or his hands.
She gives him one of her looks, like he’s made of water, transparent and easily rippled.
“Pretty much every job upstairs involves getting very dirty or breaking a sweat, usually both. I’m not sure they are skills you’d be interested in learning.”
“Are you implying that I can’t get dirty or break a sweat? Because I’ll have you know that I once ran—”
“David.” She stops him. “You know I love you, but trust me. It’s not the world you remember.”
“So what am I supposed to do, just live in this silo forever?” he asks.
She shrugs.
“Not forever, but long enough for things to get easier up there. And you can’t beat the food.” The bite of tilapia she chews is so wrong-textured it crunches audibly, an ironic period at the end of her sentence.
He tries hard not to be offended. She’s probably right. He has no business being upstairs. Especially if the only reason he wants to go upstairs right now is to spend more time with Patrick Brewer.
----
Stevie’s right, he thinks. David wouldn’t make it thirty seconds upstairs, life skills or not. She’s definitely right. So naturally, two days later, he’s loitering outside Patrick’s office hoping to get a second opinion.
“David?” Patrick calls from behind him. He is coming up the ramp, and there’s nowhere to hide. David can hardly pretend he is just admiring the paint color.
“Um, hi,” David says with a tight wave.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Patrick jokes.
“Ha, yeah,” he replies nervously. “Um, so how are you today?”
“Other than being trapped in a bunker, I can’t complain,” Patrick replies, droll.
“I think the word you’re looking for is entombed,” David says.
Patrick lets out a quick bark of a laugh, surprising them both. David wonders if he’s the first person Patrick has encountered who thinks his dark sense of humor is funny.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t answer when you knocked that day,” Patrick says. “It wasn’t very professional of me. I just needed a minute alone.”
“It’s fine,” David says, waving it off. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we’re in the middle of a global catastrophe. You’re allowed to take a minute for yourself when you need it.”
“Thank you, David.” Patrick looks at him for a minute, hand paused on the door lever, a small smile on his face like he is looking at him anew.
“Anyway what brings you to Tier 2 today?” Patrick asks, walking into his office and holding the door with a gesture inviting David in. It takes David a minute to follow. Patrick moves with such purpose, even over short distances, it’s striking.
“Um, I was thinking about the reentry team,” David says, scratching the side of his jaw nervously. “And I was wondering if I could get some ideas on what you’re looking for and . . . maybe fill out an application.”
Patrick grins. It is that upside down grin again, and David’s stomach turns with it.
“Y-yeah. Let’s fill out an application,” Patrick says, sitting down and taking a clipboard out of a drawer. He leans back in his chair so David can’t see what he is writing. “We’ll start with a brief description of your skills.”
“Um, well, I have an excellent sense of direction,” David says.
“Okay, that might be useful.” He puts his hand to his chin like he is trying to hold his face in a businesslike expression, though, so it’s probably not that useful.
“Um . . . I used to do the annual hunt at Elton John’s,” David adds tentatively.
“Good. Hunting is very useful, David,” Patrick says. It must be, because this time he clicks the end of the retractable pen and makes a note.
“Um. I did Coachella every year before we moved here.”
“Huh,” Patrick says. He’s grinning fully now, not trying to hide it. He clearly thinks David is either deranged or delightful. It’s not clear which.
It seems to David like every conversation with Patrick is really two conversations. There are the words he says aloud, which may or may not come with a friendly bite. There are also the words he almost says, the ones that seem to hang on his tongue as he listens, filtered at the last minute so they are only communicated with his eyes and his almost-smile—and only if you’re paying close attention. David is paying close attention.
“Never mind. That’s probably not relevant,” David reconsiders. “And, um, actually, the thing at Elton John’s was more about the lunch.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Patrick asks, his eyes sharp, tapping the tip of the pen against the clipboard.
“Um, okay . . .”
“We need people upstairs. The only thing you really need is willingness to learn. I actually only have one other applicant so far . . . Twyla Sands. For her skills, she said storytelling, tarot reading, and party planning.”
“Well, those do sound very important,” David says with a reluctant grin. Patrick chuckles.
Patrick makes a few more notes. David watches the way his hand moves decisively across the paper, the tightening of muscles in his forearm as he writes.
Patrick finishes his notes and clicks his pen, setting it on the desk.
“So we’ll start next Monday, if that works for you.”
“Um, what will we do up there, exactly? Upstairs, that is.”
“Right now, we’re working on setting up small farms, establishing livestock populations. If that doesn’t appeal to you, there’s also a crew shoring up buildings to make them habitable. We have people working on establishing systems like wind-generated power and water filtration, but those are mostly in the planning stages. A few people are working on a regional trade network. There’s a few other odd jobs.”
“Oh.” None of those sound remotely in David’s wheelhouse. “Can I ask what it’s like?”
Patrick sighs and studies the paper in front of him. According to Stevie, those who live downstairs must be shielded from the truth of what is upstairs until they are ready to hear it. Apparently Patrick can’t bring himself to lie to David, even to shield him.
“It’s terrifying when you first see it,” Patrick says frankly. “It’s just—”
“Actually, maybe you shouldn’t answer that,” David says.
Patrick doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself.
“The trees and plants are starting to come back now, so it’s not gray and brown like it used to be, but . . . it’s not colorful like it was before either. The light feels wrong—like it’s always a winter day at four o’clock. But it’s hot, usually. Perpetually summer. The air feels . . . close? I guess is the word. When we go into town, you’ll see it’s— Well it’s like people just took anything that they could carry and disappeared one day. Everything is unnervingly quiet. There are birds and other animals that survived, but you don’t hear them like you used to. There’s almost never wind to rustle the trees, except for when it comes in a big gale and then you have to take cover.”
“Is it too late to back out of this, because I’m not— Um . . .” David trails off. David has no idea if he is ready to be confronted with real evidence that the world he remembers exists only there in his memory.
“David, you can drop out at any point,” Patrick assures him. He leans forward, earnest, like he needs David to understand. “There’s no obligation here.”
“Okay,” David says quietly, studying his hands.
“There is one good thing about upstairs. The food is significantly better.”
“Unless there’s pizza or something, I doubt it’s enough better to be a selling point.”
“Well, it’s not like you remember, but there is pizza. It has goat cheese. The sauce is basically cooked, mashed tomatoes, and the crust is really more like a cracker. But it’s better than the seafood special you get down here.”
“Oh,” David says, surprised.
“And for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be fine. If it helps to look forward to something . . . Your first night upstairs, I’ll make you a new world pizza.”
Patrick unclips the paper and slides it across the desk. There is no form, just a hasty sketch of a pizza, a circle divided into wedges with chicken-scratched toppings. Underneath, are written three letters: I.O.U.
David studies it, dipping his head to hide his smile at the rough drawing. Patrick hasn’t written anything for a few minutes, which means he drew it before David mentioned pizza at all.
“Does this mean I have to fill out my own application?” David asks.
“No. No application. Reentry is about building a better world, David. And in my version of a better world, I think we shouldn’t have to fill out paperwork to change our lives. So . . . will I see you Monday?”
David pauses and looks at Patrick. He wants to know more about him. He wants to see more of him, too.
“Well at the moment I’m oscillating? So it’s possible I will lock myself in my room and never come out? But yes. If I can’t talk myself out of this before then, you’ll see me Monday,” he says softly.
“Good,” Patrick says.
-----
David trails his hand against the smooth concrete surface of the silo wall on his way back down the ramp from Patrick’s office, thinking about their conversation about upstairs. It’s terrifying when you first see it, Patrick had said. David closes his eyes, putting one foot and then the other on the concrete. He imagines he is walking on the road his family took to get to the silo their last day upstairs. He tries to picture the dull light, the gray-green trees, the warm air closing around him. He tries to focus on the silence, on the tap-scrape pulse of his rubber soles on the pavement. He imagines walking as far as his legs will take him.
Tier 7 is one more turn of the ramp away when suddenly it is all too much. David stops, bracing himself with his hand on the wall. His other hand crunches the I.O.U. in his fist as he tries to cling to the image of the desolate road from his mind. He hastily flattens the drawing again. He wants the road, he realizes. The silence, the stillness. The freedom. Patrick too, maybe.
All of it.
He didn’t even realize how badly he wanted to be free of this place until he sat down in Patrick’s office.
It’s all he can do to keep himself going down. He wants to turn and run. He wants to run up the ramp until he breaks through the last door between this manufactured reality below and the real, raw light above.
He does turn, looking back up the ramp, and whispers a brand new thought to himself.
“I can leave if I want.”