I wander the streets for nearly an hour before I stumble across anything I recognize. With the sun now set, the roads are tricky to navigate in the sickly-yellow glow of the streetlights. In the large gaps between light posts, the darkness is as thick and suffocating as the falling ash.

I keep moving with the thinning crowd until I make it back to familiar surroundings. Across the street from me stands the impending visage of my apartment complex. Pausing to look at it, I realize its enormity for the first time. Shooting higher into the sky than the buildings around it, it looms over everything in sight.

Everything feels different. The world seems darker, the ash thicker. My mask is heavy and uncomfortable on my face. The sounds of wet soot sloshing under the wheels of passing cars and the dull hum of neon lamps fill me with dread.

It’s as if my eyes have been opened for the first time, only instead of seeing the world illuminated, it’s now engulfed in total darkness. I am blind.

I pass through the airlock and enter the lobby. A small fleet of mopbots dart across the floor, leaving it polished and clean in their wake. They disappear into hidden panels along the wall.

The concierge, Mr. Standish, glances up at me and cracks a smile before returning to the pages of his Caretaker’s Quarterly. He’s friendly, but I don’t feel welcome here.

The elevator whirs its comforting sounds. I exhale completely for the first time in hours. Emptying my lungs of the day, I refill it with filtered, lemon-tinged air. I’m feeling better already. Today has been a whirlwind, and I am floating in the unknown, but at least I have something to orient from. How can the air be poisonous if Delia didn’t die? This mystery is certainly bigger than that, but it’s a place to start. If I can answer that I can move on to the bigger questions and maybe one day, I’ll no longer be in the dark.

Ding. The elevator doors glide open. Pacing down the hall, I suddenly remember how late it is. Is Mother worried? Has she even noticed? She always tells me to be free, so she shouldn’t have a problem with how late I stay out. Unconcerned, I open the door.

Immediately I know I’m wrong. Mother sits on the edge of the couch rocking back and forth. Her hands, clasped tight, are red from wringing them. Seeing me, she jumps up and runs down the hall toward me.

“Evelyn? Darling, I was so worried.”

She wraps her arms around me. Her embrace is uncommon but not unwelcome. I hug her back. She pushes herself away to look me in the face, our masks eye port to eye port.

“Never do that again! Do you know how much anguish you caused me? I phoned the school, Peace Officers. I’ve been here worried sick.”

“You called Peace Officers?”

A knot closes up my throat. If I hadn’t followed Delia out of there, we’d be having this conversation at a detention center, and the tone would be drastically different. I swallow hard.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to worry you. I walked home from school, that’s all.”

She embraces me again.

“You could have gotten yourself killed, Evelyn. I don’t want you doing that again.”

Her grip tightens—all the warmth of the hug is gone.

“You can’t let them get you, Evelyn… you can’t.”

Her fingers dig into my back. I wince, rocking my shoulders to escape.

The fire flashes out of her eyes. She lets go and wanders away.

“I’m going to bed.” Her voice, drained of all emotion, is barely audible.

Dazed, I watch her slink off and disappear into her room. I can’t make sense of her vacillating tone. She wants me to live and be free, but she also deeply fears the air, the subversives—everything. I know there is a battle raging inside her but how am I supposed to interact with her when I never know which way is up?

She’s just as blind as I am. She doesn’t know, so she can only fear. I want to empathize with her, but the pain in my back where her fingers dug into me makes it difficult.

I hang my coat up on the rack next to Mother’s—my eyes linger on the empty hooks. Father still isn’t home. Not wishing to wait for him and risk another indecipherable parental interaction, I get ready for bed.

All night I dream of the club. The bright colors, the heat, the smell—life. Mother’s fingers in my back. The look in Delia’s eyes.

Morning slams into me like a truck. Ready or not, Mother enters my room. Still in her mask, still silent. Obediently, I replace my filter. As soon as I do, she slinks back off to her room. Getting up and dressed, I push her from my mind while I rub the sleep from my eyes.

Why we wear our masks is all I can think about on the way to school.

                                                            ***

Three more documentaries today. C for Citizen was by far the standout picture. The junky old speakers chocked and crackled every time the bombastic soundtrack played. Speer fumbled with the controls trying to anticipate the music and turn it down before it would overload and fill the room with shrieking noise. But for every one success, he had two mishaps. He would inadvertently turn down the narration then, in an attempt to make it audible, crank the volume just as the music would start.

I literally bite my tongue a few times to keep from bursting into laughter.

The end of day bell rings, and I nearly burst up from my seat. My cheeks ache from muffled laughter and thoughts of the club swim so vividly in front of my eyes I have to restrain myself from reaching out for them.

I take slow, controlled breaths to keep myself from bouncing down the hall.

Wait in line, through the airlock, outside. A gale of slag veils the city cloaking my movements. I look around to make sure no one notices me stepping out of line. Feeling confident no one can spot me through the impenetrable haze, I avoid the buses and sprint off toward the club.

I tuck my head down and hold my coat collar up to shield my neck from the stinging grit.

Turning the corner out of view of the school, a hot rush of excitement surges through me. Logically I know Delia won’t be there. Peace Officers have no doubt scoured the place and sealed it up. But a flicker of hope aches in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, she’s there waiting for me, eager to lead me into worlds I can’t imagine. Compelled back to the club with reckless haste, I’m untouchable, invisible, and fully alive.

Rush hour traffic is starting to clog the roads. People emerge onto the sidewalk like water seeping from stone. Not a single eye lifts to notice me as I pass.

Anticipation reaching a fever pitch, my pace nearly breaks into a run as I round the final corner. Coming around the bend, my journey meets a jarring end. A tall man clasps me on the shoulder and shoves me back. Totally unprepared, I tumble to the sidewalk.

“Not that way,” he says.

“What the hell!” I say brushing myself off—his words eluding me.

Collar up, hands shoved into his overcoat’s pockets, he keeps moving without so much as turning his head.

I scoff loudly. Agitated, I try and shake it off, but my fantasy is shattered. Wind howls in the canyon of stone buildings that disappear in the gray-black cloud looming above. Yellow caution tape wrapped around the stairwell flaps violently. Red and blue lights sweep over everything. Realization snaps in. I feel faint.

Crouching low, I dare a glance around the corner. Peace Officers are still swarming the club. Inspectors are furiously punching findings into their data slates while others sift through the soot looking for clues.

My heart is pounding so hard I can hardly hear the traffic. Shaky, I bounce up and beeline back the way I came. The bustle of the street rages in my head—every flash of light in my periphery sends fresh waves of tingling shivers radiating out from behind my ears.

“Evelyn? What are you doing here?”

I freeze. That tone—smoked honey. Victoriana is standing two paces in front of me disappearing and reappearing as pedestrian’s flow around us. Shit, she must have followed me. Anxiety constricts my throat. She inches forward—her progress impeded by the current. The instant she crosses out of view, I bolt.

Victoriana calls out. I ignore her and press on. Soon the rumbling of traffic and thundering of shoes on the sidewalk drown her out. I run as fast as I can. I run like devils are chasing me.

                                                           ***

I linger with my hand on the door until my heart rate slows enough that I can hear the soft muzak playing in the hallway. Flustered, I can’t bring myself to open the door and enter the apartment. What version of Mother awaits me on the other side?

Knowing I have little choice in the matter, and every moment gives her anger more time to boil, I exhale sharply and press inside.

The apartment is cold. The lights flicker on to greet me. Blue light dances under her door. I tiptoe to the bathroom, crank the shower, and lose myself to the steam.

                                                     ***

Bound like a wire, I get little sleep. Mother shuffles into my room right on cue. Twist, plunk, twist.

By the time I’m ready for school, she’s back in her room—blue light already dancing under the door. I check the kitchen—no breakfast set out this morning. Lingering by the door, I run my finger over the empty hook. Father’s gone already.

Retreating into myself, I sigh and give into the routine.

                                                   ***

From the moment I stepped into class, Victorina’s eyes have been drilling into the back of my head. After the morning’s first film—Make Mine Freedom—finished up, I dared a glance back at her. There she was, sitting in the middle of her gaggle like the eye of a hurricane—her sycophants passing notes under their desks around her. Our eyes met, and my throat seized. Her eyes burned like blue neon. I turned around as quick as I could—sweat beading under my collar. I blinked away the afterimage of her piercing eyes as Speer fought with the projector to get Just Punishment playing. The image stuttered, and the speakers grumbled, but it smoothed out by the end of the opening credits.

Has she told anyone what she saw yesterday? I mean there wasn’t anything to see. Right? She’s probably telling her friends that I was at the crime scene to destroy evidence or something. She’s probably telling them I’m a subversive.

She has it out for me, and if I’m not careful things could get out hand fast. What if she went to Inspector Aldridge during lunch and told her I was plotting to sabotage the school’s air filters? She could have me sent to the pits or worse. Just with a word. I bet she’s loving this. Having something to hold over my head, make me squirm. I bet it’s just like squashing an ant to her. She probably doesn’t even see me as a person. And what have I ever done to her?

I dig back through every memory of her. Every passive aggressive comment. Every party invitation snub. I dig all the way back to first year. There is nothing there. Not even a glimmer of friendship or kindness—a gaping cavernous maw. Staring into it, my head begins to throb—a pain like hot needles being shoved between my eyes keeps me from looking any deeper.

Eyes slammed tight, pulsing waves of light flash before my eyes. Waves of nausea push me to the brink. I’m desperate to pinch the bridge of my nose or rub my temples. Anything to relieve this headache. But encased in my mask, I hold my head in vain.

The prattle of the projector stops and the classroom’s fluorescents flash on. I stifle a whimper.

“How about that class? Good right? That’s one of my favorites. Really shows you the cost of stepping out of line. Now up!”

Still reeling from this fiendish headache, I’m up and marching in line without a thought.

Head in my hands, I shuffle in line guiding myself along with peeks at the heels in front of me. I’ve walked this path so many hundreds of times that I don’t have to look up to know that we’re almost there.

Wham! A slam to my shoulders pushes me out of line and through the door of the girl’s bathroom. Alert, I pivot around. Victoriana grabs me by the shirt and pushes me back. I reach out and grab the sink before she rams me into it. She lets go of me then rushes over to the stalls. She pushes them open one by one. Empty. She moves to the lock on the door and throws it with a thunk.

“What was that all about yesterday? Huh? Have you gotten yourself tangled up in something? You need to be more careful.” She pulls off her mask, tousles her hair out of her face, then locks eyes with me. Its like staring into an open flame. Unable to match her gaze, I look down at her boots and step forward. Everything’s hot and spinning so I just open my mouth at let fly.

“How’s that any business of yours? Who the hell are you to be following me around. Telling me I’ve broken the rules, look at you!” I cast an accusatory finger, but I can’t meet her gaze. “Taking your mask off. If Speer or Aldridge find out…”

Victoriana’s bravado melts. “Evelyn, what are you doing? Why are you being like this. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“What was that?” I cock my head to the side and look her right in the eyes. “I’m sorry I’m so air-brained I didn’t catch that.”

Victoriana shakes her head and backs away for the door.

“What did I do deserve this from you?”

A thousand things come to mind. You could be nicer to me. You could have invited me in instead of constantly pushing me away. But I say nothing—I let the silence speak for me.

“Don’t say I never warned you.”

“Whatever. Bye Vicky.” I twiddle my fingers as mockingly as I can. Shaking her head. she puts her mask on, checks the seals then exits without a backward glance.

As soon as the door closes I rush to the nearest stall and slam the door. What is going on? Is she going to turn me in? Was she actually trying to help me? What am I going to do? There is no way this is going to end well. Just breath Evelyn.

Pulling myself together, I flush the toilette for anyone who’s listening, wash my hands, then head to the dining hall. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Everything is fine.

I grab my emergency ration and sit as far from Victoriana as possible.

The loud crackle of the classroom’s speakers coming to life pulls me out of my head. Watching Speer fiddle with the command module, it’s clear that something isn’t working. The speakers start playing the audio of our next documentary, Great Occupations in the Great Society, but the projector won’t fire up.

“Damnable thing!”

Speer slams a fist into the command module. The narration stops. We hold our tongues, but I’m sure I’m not the only one with a smirk on my face.

“Stand by, students.”

Speer turns and leaves the room, without waiting for our response. He doesn’t have to. He knows that we are incapable of anything but obedience, and sadly enough he’s right. My mind drifts to the back to the club.

It was cramped, loud, chaotic, and intimidating, but it was also alluring, sensational, and alive. The contrast between then and now is so strong that I begin to doubt if it was real or just a vivid fantasy. But then the flapping police tape, the man pushing me to the sidewalk, and Victoriana’s spectacular timing come back to me and remind me that it’s all too real. And if I can’t figure out what to do about Victoriana, I might never have a chance at that kind of freedom again.

Speer returns followed by two gangly men in brown coveralls wearing simple half masks with hoses connecting them to the boxy filters clipped to their sides.

“The projector finally crapped out huh? We’ll get it up and running again, but it’ll take us a while,” says one of the eerily similar technicians. The other shakes his head up and down in agreement.

“I thought that might be the case. Alright, students, listen up. The projector needs to be repaired. We will work around this by going to the computer room for some unstructured lab time.”

The other students fidget with excitement, but I don’t. Oh, I’m excited, but for completely different reasons. I have a plan.

“Settle down. Don’t make me regret this. Stand up! Proceed to the computer lab single file.”