As his eyes focused, he noticed that the emergency lights in the hallway were a little brighter than he had first thought, and as he focused his eyes on the distant light coming through the third door there was a slight modulation in the light and Clay thought to himself that the lights overhead had blinked, but then he stood and watched the modulation and suddenly became aware of a slight electrical hum coming from a light overhead.
Some faces appeared in the window in the distance. They had been there before, but he hadn’t seen them in the light. Now, as his senses returned, they came into focus and he could see, but not hear, that they were shouting and beckoning to him. His heart jumped. He felt the cold of the floor on his feet. He could not read their lips or hear their shouts, but he could see that a few of the faces seemed to be red from crying. Their hands were clawing at the window in exactly the same way that he had cried out and clawed at the window outside the facility only moments ago. This connection, though unidentified in his conscious mind, tore at his heart and soul. He blinked in incomprehension.
The people behind the glass motioned to him, and in his short-term memory he heard, conformed to the movements of their lips, his own voice screaming out for someone to hear him and save him. But, in reality, he could not hear the voices at all. He thought of the face staring out at him through the glass, and wondered if that is the way he had looked, pawing and beating on the glass to be let in. The juxtaposition of the wild gesticulations of the faces and the utter silence of the hallway was jarring, and his thoughts remained jumbled and confused.
Whoever was locked up in that distant room was motioning to him, and as he focused his eyes again a sign was held up, written crudely on paper. Clay narrowed his eyes to try to read it, and his squint blocked some of the light, but the light from behind the faces shone through the paper and he could make out some letters. It was only, maybe, forty feet to the end of the corridor, but it was through windows crisscrossed with chicken wire and his brain was still fuzzy as he struggled to solve the puzzle.
Focusing his eyes intently the chicken wire disappeared and he noticed that the sign was written in Russian. Russian again? He felt his knees buckle slightly and his head grew light and, shaking his head at the faces he motioned helplessly and wondered if this was another of his recent delusions. Sorry. I don’t read Russian, he pantomimed. He tried to communicate with his eyes, but that didn’t work any better. I’m just a man on a walk… a beautiful walk out of the prison of my old life.
Different faces appeared in the window and also made wild pleadings for help. He blinked and Cheryl appeared in his memory and was transported to the other side of the glass. He was jolted for a second, then shrugged. “Sorry, Cheryl,” he gasped, surprising even himself at the words. I can’t help you.
Try to warm up, Clay said to himself, and began to pace back and forth down the short hallway, stepping back into his cell after a moment to sit on the bed again. Todd had told him not to snoop around. He suddenly wondered whether there might be cameras watching him, and he did his best to appear unconcerned about the faces he’d just seen down the hallway. This wasn’t, in the end, all that difficult. He did not want to encourage anyone who might be looking to him as a way of escaping their own prison. He thought of Mrs. Grantham and the doll-eyed walkers that he and Clive had passed on the roadside. I have a prison of my own that I’m busy escaping, thank you very much.
He thought of the door that led back out into the cold blizzard, telling himself that he could leave anytime at all, and that he was perfectly free, and saying it firmly, out loud, he mostly believed it. Isn’t that what we all tell ourselves? But he had just come within a hair’s breadth of freezing to death in a blizzard the likes of which New York had never seen and the muting and silencing of his compassion was a momentary need brought on by his reason. He decided that it would be best for the moment to do precisely as Officer Todd had asked.
He did not know how long he waited. Time seemed to have disappeared since he’d begun his walk through the mountains. Was it now Friday night? Or was it Saturday night? He got up and paced the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked down the hallway again, noticing signs here and there, all written in Russian. What is this place? Shaking his head, he turned and walked back into the cell.
He thought to squeeze out his socks so they would dry faster, so he did that to all of his clothes, ringing them into the toilet and then stretching them out on the concrete bunk. He remembered Clive’s business card so he pulled it out of his pants pocket and blew on it for a second before sticking it into the zippered pocket of his pack. The memory is a funny thing. He was unsure of exactly what day it was, but he remembered Clive’s business card.
His body and his mind slowly reconnected. If he’d been asked, he would have said that the period from his entry into the facility until now had taken hours. In actuality, it had only been minutes. As he sat on the bed and his core temperature came up, Clay suddenly became aware of a noise in the hall. Keys turning. Clay heard whistling and a moment later Todd returned with steaming hot coffee, some garish prison clothes, blue slip on shoes, and a few more blankets.
“Alrighty Clay my-boy, here’re some temporary clothes and warmth for you. Be glad you aren’t being in-processed into this facility permanent-like. You wouldn’t like it in here.” Todd set everything down on the end of the bed and handed the coffee to Clay, who took it gratefully and with copious thanks.
“Bring those over into the office when you’re done getting dressed. I’ll throw them in the dryer for you. Oh, and bring your fish too.”
Todd turned to leave again and, as he did, Clay thanked him again profusely, but Todd just waved his hand at him dismissively. As he stepped out of the cell, Clay asked, “What is this place, Todd?”
“I told you. It is a juvenile detention facility. In layman’s terms it’s a juvie prison run jointly by the state of New York and the Federal Government for hard-core juvenile offenders.”
“Then why are all the signs in Russian? I… I didn’t stumble into Siberia did I?” Clay asked, smiling at his joke and trying his best to be polite.
Todd smiled but the smile seemed forced. “Well, Clay, generally when someone saves your life and offers to cook your fish for you it is best not to ask too many questions. That was part of our deal. This is a secure facility, after all, so let’s be clear about that.” He looked at Clay as if the matter was settled, slightly jutting out his chin and narrowing his eyes. Then he relaxed and added, “Listen, I figure your brain is still a little frozen from your hike and the details may be a little cloudy. Drink your coffee and put on these dry clothes and I’ll talk with you in the office when you’re done.”
Five minutes later, Clay walked into the office, feeling sheepish and embarrassed in the jail clothing, but refreshed nonetheless. He had the blanket around him and carried the wet clothes wrapped up in his shirt. Todd took the clothes from him and dropped them into a plastic mail basket next to his desk. Clay smiled to him and handed Todd the fish.
“Here in a minute I’ll go get you some supper,” Todd said, looking down at the fish, “and this will be most of it.” He slid out from behind the desk. “We’re shorthanded due to the storms, and our supplies are way down. Do you want another cup of coffee? We’ve got plenty of coffee.” Clay nodded, and Todd took his cup over to the coffee maker and filled it to the top.