The Fifth Healer

8.1.

The door slams shut with such ferocious speed as to leave no doubt about what would happen to any body-parts unfortunate enough to be in its way.

Ainsley jumps. Wally yelps. I stare.

"That was odd," I say.

"Did anyone see what was on the other side?" asks Wally.

"Too fast to tell," I say. "But it was bright. So I assume outside?"

"At least it gave us some more air," says Ainsley.

Wall is looking at the seam between the door and the wall. "What made it open?"

We all stand in silent for a few moments, staring at the now inert door, its pointy fragments taunting us and tempting us with the allure of possible escape.

Something occurs to me. Didn't my "parents" (I'm still not convinced) say something about a door in that letter? I concentrate, and the words come back to me.

We will save you some of it now lest you waste dozens of precious minutes on the solution to the first time trial: the door will open at intervals of the sacred number.

Could they be referring to this door? Is this room a time trial?

That would mean the door is going to open again. So what are these intervals of the sacred number?

I absently brush the cool metal of the watch inside my pocket, and then the brittle edges of the parchment. I remove my hand from my pocket and look at my tattoos.

"What do your tattoos mean?" asks Wally.

"Which one?" I have dozens.

Wally shrugs.

"They mean let me concentrate," I say. Is the answer to this problem written on my body somewhere?

I remember my first tattoo: twelve sun.

My watch, like any clock, counts up to twelve.

The same length of time, in hundreds of a second, the door stayed open.

Dozens of precious minutes.

"That door is going to open again in twelve minutes," I announce, walking over to stand by it.

"How do you know that?" asks Wally.

"My tattoos told me," I say. He thinks I'm being sarcastic, but it's actually partly true.

"Tell us, oh seer of fortunes, says Ainsley, mocking me in a voice that's only partially playful, "will the door stay open longer this time?"

"Or just twelve-hundredths, like before?" says Wally.

My chin snaps toward Wally. "How'd you know how long it was open?"

"I just knew, bro."

"Do you guys both of the time thing?" says Ainsley, eyes going wide. "I've never met anyone else who does...."

"But how can you be sure it's opening again?" demands Wally.

"You have a better plan?"

He purses his lips, silent.

"Exactly," I say. "Besides, this door only fits one person at a time."

I'll be going first, thank you very much.

Sure, I could wait twelve minutes to confirm my theory. But then who gets to say who goes through next? It's not like anyone is going to be eager to stay in this foodless, airless, creepy metal cage twelve minutes more than they have to.