The Gray House

We don’t get to see any of the parents of those being taken away. Stands to reason: if we saw them, that would mean that they, in turn, would see us, and Shark still has enough sense not to allow that under any circumstances.

At length the favorably tested are packed and sent out of the House. The barriers are coming down, Reptiles drift off for a soothing cup of herbal tea, and we return to our room.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t have to say good-bye to Smoker in these idiotic circumstances,” Humpback offers.

“Do you think he would have called all of us shitholes too?” Jackal says.

“It’s a possibility,” Humpback says.

SPHINX

I’m climbing up to the attic the only way I know how. From the backside of the fire-escape ladder with my back pressed against the wall. The higher I go, the more unpleasant this way becomes. In theory there shouldn’t be anything particularly hard about it. In practice it quickly turns out that I’ve failed to account for some things. Like nails sticking out of the wall. The first one gets me in the back about fifteen feet up, the second immediately follows the first, and by halfway I’m already bleeding like Saint Sebastian, so I forget about the speed of ascent and concentrate on not meeting with another nail.

Noble—with whom I made a bet about who’d be able to get to the attic faster—evaporates at about the same time without so much as a “See you later.” Tabaqui, our referee, whose cheerful shouts are only marginally less annoying than the nails, remains at his post.

“Hold on, old man! You’re almost there! Just forget you’ve ever had a back, and you’ll see how easy it becomes!”

“Thanks for that!” I shout, dragging my leg over the next rung, pushing myself farther up the wall, scraping a bit more skin off the shoulder blades. “Your advice is, as always, filled with wisdom. And where did Noble get to?”

I look down at Jackal, who’s now casting about forlornly, and can’t stop myself from laughing. Giggles are the last thing a man in my position should be attempting, so I clench my jaw, avert my gaze, and for the umpteenth time count the remaining rungs on the ladder.

“Exactly. Where is he?” Jackal says indignantly. “Could it be his nerves snapped? I despair of this generation. Weaklings all, may I be forgiven. Can’t stand the heat.”

Seven rungs left. Here, two walls of the House come together. This corner used to be an outer wall, but then it was covered and glazed and now it’s just a rectangular space, housing the fire escape and the emergency exit. The wall I’m leaning against is painted baby blue, the opposite wall is exposed bricks, and the one facing the yard is glass, but you can’t see anything through it because of all the grime, so the view is not distracting me.

On the fourth rung from the top my calves start cramping up. I slide up as far as I can, trying to straighten against the ladder so that I barely touch the previous rung with the toes of my sneakers, but instead of putting my heel on the next one I catch my instep on it and hurl myself forward. There’s no way anyone could make me repeat this trick. I stand now without leaning against anything, the way a person with real arms would be standing on a stepladder, doing my best to believe that I have them too. From here on it’s easy. Straighten up again and imagine that there’s a soft pillow a couple of feet down from where I’m standing, which would cushion my fall nicely. I picture it in my head, make a step, and here I am, up in the attic. Or rather my head is. Not forgetting about the pillow, that’s the important thing. I don’t. One more step, and my upper half is in there; another one, and the rest of me follows.

I climb out of the hatch, stretching on the floor, but don’t have time to congratulate myself on the successful arrival before the leg cramp twists me around, making me roll on the floor hissing, risking a fall back through the hatch. I can neither rub nor squeeze my poor appendage, there’s only one remedy available to me, and that’s biting my own calf, and I’m just about to resort to it when it becomes clear that there are two of us up here in the attic.

In the far corner, on a blanket spread under the pitched roof, there’s a ghostlike girl in a long dress. The dress is fiery red, the girl’s hair is green. I recognize that hair, but can’t quite remember the nick, and when I do I’m not sure I have it right until she twists the thin-lipped mouth in a disgusted grimace. Then I say to her, “Hello, Chimera.”

I’m sure I resemble an Ouroboros, but I’d like to see someone get a good grip on their calf with his teeth while looking dignified. True, I don’t think I’ve ever looked more idiotic, but the ridiculousness of my pose is not enough to explain the loathing with which Chimera is looking at me. Her look conveys to me that I’m the most revolting sight she’s ever encountered in her life. Under Chimera’s stare even the cramp begins to subside. I slowly uncoil and make another attempt at establishing contact.