The Society II

Part 3

It doesn't take me twenty minutes.

It probably would on the outside if I was going to work, but I don't have any of my 'fussy' things with me. My mother didn't give me a chance to pack any of them when she decided I was coming here.

I shrug on my cardigan, looking down at my jeans.

They're not staying up too well. 

I was too anxious to eat a lot last month, and I've lost weight. 

The realisation makes me scowl and tie the waistband of my jeans with a hair tie. I didn't want to lose any weight - I was already skinny and tall before I came here, and now I'm betting I look like a giraffe or something.

There are no mirrors here, so I have to make do with my phone camera to try to tame my hair.

I didn't pack my straightener (I didn't pack my bag myself, actually), so my hair is doing what it loves - practically sitting on end.

Tucking my t-shirt into my jeans, I slip my feet into my Birks. The 'Depression Shoe', Charlotte used to call them. I stand by my belief that I could have converted her to them, but I won't get a chance to do that now.

The thought makes my eyes sting, but I blink it away as best I can. Only a few tears escape while I shoulder my bag, and I wipe my eyes as I walk out the door.

One of the aides dropped off the stuff I was admitted with while I was tidying up, and I forgot that I had even brought a cardigan. It would have been helpful when I was shaking so much that the aides thought I was hypothermic. 

I nod to one of the workers as I pass her, and she offers me a wide smile.

"Going home, hey? That's exciting," she exclaims.

I give her a small smile and sidle past, walking towards the doors. 

I leave the unit, taking the elevator down to the first floor. The movement makes my stomach clench a little, and I hold onto the railing. The action is something that my grandma would have to do, and that manages to pull a smile out of me. Thinking of the woman with purple hair, the one who never liked Sean, is always a mood-booster. I doubt my mother told her where I was, so I'll have to figure out how to write to her. 

She doesn't like phones. She doesn't like email. She doesn't like mindlinking. 

She is the single most inconvenient person to contact when you're out of the pack limits, and she finds it hilarious. 

I do not.

I nod to the people on the reception desk and walk out. I was expecting them to call me over, but they don't. I assume Caleb has something to do with that, too.

It's quite useful having him around, actually.

The aides always left me alone when he was around, and nobody was there trying to convince me to eat that mashed pea gruel that they made for lunch. 

"Right on time," he mutters, taking my bag in such a quick movement that I almost miss it. 

If it wasn't for the sudden lack of weight on my shoulder, I probably would have.

"We're going to drive to your pack, if that's okay. We'll get your stuff, and take the plane from there," he informs me quietly. 

Everything about him seems to be quiet. He doesn't move in a way that creates noise, unlike everyone around me. He doesn't need to. His presence is enough to announce him. His loud shoes are almost like a bell around a quiet cats neck, only there so he doesn't scare people out of their skin.