wanders; I am getting anxious. I don’t know how I know how to speak to the librarian, why the musty shelves feel warm and comfortable instead of unfamiliar. As far as I remember, I have never been here before. Yet I am beginning to get used to this curious déjà vu, this instinctual knowledge I seem to possess. I know I must have been here, or somewhere like this, Before. I fight to remember, but I can’t. The librarian clears her throat, and I jump. She’s looking at me oddly.
Are you OK?
she asks. I nod and take the index card she’s extending toward me.
Reference,
it reads in her neat print. 4 th floor. 4.10.1791. She taps her finger on the last number.
This is the code — four for fourth floor, ten for Reference, 1791 for order of the periodical. Let me know if you need any help.
Thanks,
I say. She nods back. Her face is still distorted into something wondering. I hope she doesn’t get too curious, start asking questions. Suddenly the gravity of what I’ve done hits me: I’m
in
Circle Nine. Fully here, on enemy land. Any wrong word or motion might betray us. And there’d be no chance for escape. Someone asking questions could mean someone following me back could mean Sam and I are separated, forced to live somewhere apart. All because we are too young. Sam has always been right. This place is frightening — the power of everyone in it overwhelming — especially without him.
I duck my head as I walk away, toward the elevator, old and creaky. When I reach the fourth floor, it takes me a few minutes to locate the reference section. It’s quiet in here, so quiet I’m spooked. I estimate it’s been almost an hour already. If Sam sleeps for two, I might have fifteen or twenty minutes left. I pray he sleeps for two. If he finds out I came out alone, in the middle of the day . . . I shudder at the possibility.
When I get to Reference, I see a stack of papers a mile high. I panic. She forgot to write down the date. There are a week’s worth of papers in this stack. I feel the hopelessness of it. But I begin thumbing through them frantically, anyway. I’m not even sure where to look, so I just glance at the headlines.
It’s been ten minutes and I’m losing hope because I only have ten left, max, and I came all this way and I refuse to go home with nothing. I am shocked at my own boldness, but at the same time my nerves are on overdrive. I accidentally drop some of the papers, and I jump at the sound they make, even though it’s soft, as they hit the floor. I’m gathering them up again when I see it:
Blaze on Orchard Lane Pending Investigation
Four locals are reported missing following a fire that destroyed their home last Monday. The fire, which authorities believe originated in the master bedroom, quickly turned one family’s two-story home into an uncontrollable inferno.
“Any bodies would have been reduced to ash,” said Fire Chief Jim Wexel. “A fire like that, there was nothing we could do.”
Although evidence does not point to arson, the cause of the fire is still pending investigation.
Chills crawl up my spine as I read. The article is sad; it is a horrible thing to have happened to a family. Part of me wonders if I am connected to this at all — it seems far-fetched. It occurs to me that Sam really did just want to protect me from seeing the ugliness of the world, like he says. That he just wanted to keep Circle Nine from hurting me, like he always does. That makes far more sense than the idea that I’m somehow connected to a local tragedy. But memories of the night I met Sam flash through my mind. The charred building, the heat on my face, the sirens in the distance. I’m cold all over.
I must get home to Sam. Maybe I can find a way to ask him about it, so this will all be cleared up without me having to sneak around. But not just yet. Something tells me to keep my secrets just a little while longer. I’ll ask Sam when I have more of a reason to think that there’s a link
Are you OK?
she asks. I nod and take the index card she’s extending toward me.
Reference,
it reads in her neat print. 4 th floor. 4.10.1791. She taps her finger on the last number.
This is the code — four for fourth floor, ten for Reference, 1791 for order of the periodical. Let me know if you need any help.
Thanks,
I say. She nods back. Her face is still distorted into something wondering. I hope she doesn’t get too curious, start asking questions. Suddenly the gravity of what I’ve done hits me: I’m
in
Circle Nine. Fully here, on enemy land. Any wrong word or motion might betray us. And there’d be no chance for escape. Someone asking questions could mean someone following me back could mean Sam and I are separated, forced to live somewhere apart. All because we are too young. Sam has always been right. This place is frightening — the power of everyone in it overwhelming — especially without him.
I duck my head as I walk away, toward the elevator, old and creaky. When I reach the fourth floor, it takes me a few minutes to locate the reference section. It’s quiet in here, so quiet I’m spooked. I estimate it’s been almost an hour already. If Sam sleeps for two, I might have fifteen or twenty minutes left. I pray he sleeps for two. If he finds out I came out alone, in the middle of the day . . . I shudder at the possibility.
When I get to Reference, I see a stack of papers a mile high. I panic. She forgot to write down the date. There are a week’s worth of papers in this stack. I feel the hopelessness of it. But I begin thumbing through them frantically, anyway. I’m not even sure where to look, so I just glance at the headlines.
It’s been ten minutes and I’m losing hope because I only have ten left, max, and I came all this way and I refuse to go home with nothing. I am shocked at my own boldness, but at the same time my nerves are on overdrive. I accidentally drop some of the papers, and I jump at the sound they make, even though it’s soft, as they hit the floor. I’m gathering them up again when I see it:
Blaze on Orchard Lane Pending Investigation
Four locals are reported missing following a fire that destroyed their home last Monday. The fire, which authorities believe originated in the master bedroom, quickly turned one family’s two-story home into an uncontrollable inferno.
“Any bodies would have been reduced to ash,” said Fire Chief Jim Wexel. “A fire like that, there was nothing we could do.”
Although evidence does not point to arson, the cause of the fire is still pending investigation.
Chills crawl up my spine as I read. The article is sad; it is a horrible thing to have happened to a family. Part of me wonders if I am connected to this at all — it seems far-fetched. It occurs to me that Sam really did just want to protect me from seeing the ugliness of the world, like he says. That he just wanted to keep Circle Nine from hurting me, like he always does. That makes far more sense than the idea that I’m somehow connected to a local tragedy. But memories of the night I met Sam flash through my mind. The charred building, the heat on my face, the sirens in the distance. I’m cold all over.
I must get home to Sam. Maybe I can find a way to ask him about it, so this will all be cleared up without me having to sneak around. But not just yet. Something tells me to keep my secrets just a little while longer. I’ll ask Sam when I have more of a reason to think that there’s a link
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