Ten | newtmas

forty

Saying yes to Thomas' question turns out to be a long and complicated journey, made even more difficult by the fact that I've got a cast and OCD.

Apparently, the janitor's closet by the phones has nobody by it at night. What it does have, though, is a massive teenage boy sized vent. I mean, it's not comfortable, obviously. But it works.

"You good, Newt?" Thomas asks, as I carefully shift myself so I'm leaning on my good side. That's two steps out of the chair, two steps to get down onto the ground, three into the vent. Seven.

"Not really," I say, looking down at my hands because, well, Thomas is directly in front of me.

"You don't have to do this. But I know you can. It's not far, and all you have to do is follow me," Thomas says.

"I'll be here, as usual," Vince says from behind me. He's standing in the corner of the closet, undoubtedly staring down at us disapprovingly. When Thomas told him what he wanted to do, he didn't sound thrilled. Now I understand why.

"I'll do it," I say. I've made it this far, so might as well.

"We'll be back in a few, Vince," Thomas says quietly.

"Be careful," Vince says.

"Always," Thomas says.

With that, we crawl through, my cast hitting up against the vent every two seconds, making me grimace. Every ten moves forward, both of us stop so I can snap my fingers, muffling them against my shirt to do so. Vents carry sound, and that's not great for us at the moment.

"Newt?" Thomas whispers while we stop for a third time.

"Yeah?" I whisper back.

"Why does crawling count?" he asks.

I furrow my eyebrows as I finish my ten snaps. "What d'ya mean?"

"I mean, why does crawling have to be something you do in tens? You walk in tens, but why crawl?" Thomas asks.

"Well, I do everything in tens. Walk, shake my head, tap my foot, snap my fingers, wash my hands—why would crawling be different?" I ask.

"Why can't it be? Other things can be," Thomas says, crawling forward.

"Even if it could, I'm not trying that in the middle of a tight vent. But I don't think it's different," I say.

We stop again, and I expect Thomas to keep asking me about it, but instead, he changes the topic. "We're almost there."

"How's this even possible to be doing? How do you know how about the vents?" I ask.

"A mix of Blake and Vince," Thomas says. "Also, my own experience. I'm not that dumb. Well, I'm less sharp now on the antipsychotics."

We keep moving, and I want to ask him more about Blake, but I decide against it for now. It was hard enough to talk about his escape attempt. But I wonder where Blake is now. Is he back in a place like this? Or is he at home, living a normal life?

After two more stops for my tens, we come to a turn. When we get to the end of it, I'm at four.

Thomas shifts a bit and pulls something from his pocket that I can't see in the dark. I can't even see where we've come to a stop, because Thomas is blocking the way.

I hear sounds of metal, then what sounds to me like a small explosion in the form of a crash, then a hissing noise from Thomas. He mutters a curse under his breath, then climbs out, letting me inch forward in the vent. I reach nine when I get to the exit, then I pause.