an assault. Sabine was going to attack the city—I knew that, I could see it coming—and I couldn’t imagine anything good happening as a result.
But when she pounded on the wall, nothing happened. The hole just got bigger. And she got tired.
I was relieved when she finally stopped. I was hoping she’d burned through all that anger. She’d let it flame brightly for that brief period, and now, I hoped, she’d be able to just walk away. Point made. Anger expressed. Bad blood gone.
But then she leaned forward and stuck her head into the gap. It was terrifying, watching that, watching her motionless body perched there at the edge of that hole, just waiting for something to happen.
Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a dark, cramped space down there beneath the street. And what Sabine was seeing, what had stopped her cold, was something that in normal circumstances would have stayed a faint whisper in the back of her head. A fear, a personal epiphany, projected into an empty, brick-ringed hole.
Whatever it was, it was a way forward. And it was a path Sabine must have felt compelled to take.
Without looking back, she moved inside and disappeared.
And that was it. That was the end of Sabine’s protest, the end of her little piece of performance art.
I stared at the static scene for a long time. At first, I was waiting for her to come back out. Then, after a while, I was sure that she wouldn’t. After about five minutes, I hit the fast-forward button and spun through nearly a half hour of empty street. Then there was a hint of movement screen right. I hit the “play” button once again and watched as the Poet tentatively made her way on-screen, first standing back to study Sabine’s poem, then moving up to the wall to stare into the hole. She didn’t look for long—she just gave the hole a cursory, uninterested glance—before she backed up and headed toward the camera.
The Poet stopped in the middle of the street, a couple of feet away. She bent down and stared into the camera lens for a long moment, her bright eyes sparkling behind her black leather mask. Then she reached out and shut it off.
The screen went a brilliant blue in my hands, and I sat there for a while, trying to figure out what to do next.
It took me about fifteen minutes to make it to Sabine’s poem.
The rain was coming down hard by then, and the streets were all flooded. Spokane had been transformed into a maze of inch-deep rivers, and I cut a wake through the water as I made my way to St. James Tower, home of Cob Gilles and the Poet. By the time I got there, my clothing was soaked through. It stuck, cold, to my skin, and I couldn’t stop shivering.
The poem was there. Large as life and just as angry. I noticed the can of green spray paint lying discarded in the gutter. Sabine’s ladder lay flat on the sidewalk nearby.
I didn’t hesitate. I went right up to the hole and peered inside. There was less than a foot of space between the outer wall and the inner wall, and that space was almost completely filled with debris. There was absolutely no way anyone could have climbed inside. It was a physical impossibility.
But that didn’t really surprise me.
It was just like with Amanda and her tunnels. Where Sabine had gone, I couldn’t follow. Not yet, anyway. And not on this path.
I rested my head against the wall for a long moment. I was exhausted, drained of all energy, beaten down to a pulp.
Then I turned and headed back home.
Taylor heard me open the front door and met me in the entryway.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said. She looked tired. Her face was long, and every muscle in her cheeks and jaw had gone perfectly slack. “You’re soaking wet. Where did you go?”
“I was looking for Sabine.” Taylor’s eyes went wide with concern, and I paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I didn’t think she could handle another loss. “I thought she might be across the street, but she’s not there. She’s probably with Mama Cass.”
Taylor nodded and dredged up a reassuring smile. “She’s a big girl, Dean. I’m sure she’s fine. We’ll all be fine.” Her voice was faint, and I could tell that she didn’t really believe what she was saying. She was just trying to be strong. For me.
I nodded. “I need to go change,” I said. “But save me some food, okay? I’m absolutely famished.” I forced a smile of my own. It felt wrong on my face—a weak and transparent lie.
Upstairs, I found Sabine’s duffel bag tucked beneath her bed. I gathered up all of her clothing and stuffed it inside, filling it nearly to overflowing. Then I crammed her drawing papers in on top. Charcoal words jumped out at me as I worked. They smeared beneath my damp fingertips—bold but so very, very fragile. And so very, very temporary.
corridors and echoes …
… inside …
… she hides
By the time I was done, the room looked completely abandoned. The bed wasn’t made, but all trace of Sabine was gone, hastily packed away. I left the door wide open and fled back to my room. I wrapped the duffel bag inside a patchwork quilt and buried it in the back of my closet, beneath a stack of neatly folded bedding.
Then I stripped out of my wet clothes and collapsed naked onto the futon.
Sabine had been talking about leaving—I could tell them that. After meeting with the Poet, she’d gotten fed up. And, frustrated, she left. Without saying a word. It would be the most natural thing in the world.
And they’d believe it. They’d want to believe it. We were all tempted to leave. We stayed—we kept staying —but we knew it was wrong. We knew we should be packing up and hiking out of here.
Hell, my car was waiting just outside the city limits. I could gather up my cameras and go. Right now. I could be in the car in a matter of hours. I could be in Seattle by midnight.
My hands started shaking in my lap. I clenched them into fists and then shook them loose. Again. And then again. Clenched and released. Clenched and released. Finally, I fished my jacket from the floor and dug through its pockets, coming up with my bottle of Vicodin. After a moment’s hesitation, I popped open the lid and bolted down a couple of pills.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Photograph. October 25, 12:11 A.M. Taylor, bound:
The shutter speed is wrong. Every edge is blurred slightly, giving the picture—a young woman sitting, bound, on the edge of a bed—a feathered, ephemeral quality. It is like the scene is moving, caught in transition.
The bedroom is lit in candlelight—a warm yellow, burning out of frame, somewhere to the woman’s left. Her clothing is disheveled; the shoulder of her hoodie has slipped down, exposing pale skin at her neck, between strands of wild black hair. Her hands and forearms are extended out in front of her body, bound together with loops of gray duct tape. There is tape across her mouth, too, stretching from ear to ear.
The woman’s eyes are wide, lashes and brow raised in fright. She is looking right back at the camera. Her entire world is focused on that one point in space and time—laser sharp and terrified. Her right cheek is lost in
