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85. Treasure

There is a stone brick that sits out just a tiny bit further from the rest of the basement wall, and when she wriggles it out, there is a picture and a note in a language she doesn't understand. She writes a small letter of her own and replaces it with the rest, hiding it all away again.

There is a hollow under the first floor common cabinet. It's regularly restocked with hot chocolate and other things to fix it up, cookies, chocolate candies. Just small, relatively cheap comforts. She doesn't know who does it, if it's one person or many, but when she keeps hearing about how terrible everyone on the island must be, she keeps that secret little cubby in mind. Thinks about the little sticky notes that are sometimes left in there, not warnings about hands off, but little scraps of well wishing.

The laundry had spare supplies hidden behind a fake piece of paneling.

Small caves litter island, many of them containing some secret, some trick, some treasure.

There is a tree with an unusual knot that slides out. The first time she pulled she cut her hands on the razor wire. C really liked their razor wire. And bizarre projectile weapons. And exotic animals, though all of those were long dead. She could always tell when something was C's, because it was always a little ridiculous. As usually, there was a couple drinks inside, a nutrition bar, and a pink bandage tin. Sometimes they held actual bandages but just as often they were empty. This time it was a ring that spilled into her hand. The script inside the band read, I want your forever.

With a jerk, America placed it back, placed everything back, exactly as it was. There was a story there, and the dust inside the secret compartment meant the ending was likely a sad one.

She avoided that spot from then on, as if the small, sparkling ring might bring bad luck. She sought treasures, yes, but the price of that one felt a bit too high. Like a tragedy waiting to take root.

11. Hatred

The thing about hate is that it had always, always been easy for her. Where love provoked caution, and friendship a succor, hatred was a vessel she could gladly pour every bit of her own unpleasantness into. It was rare for something to kindle it, but once there it was easy to strip away the humanity, the sympathy she might feel toward another person. It wasn't unlike her relationship with the dead. They were no longer people but symbols, triggers for various emotions that could comfort or cripple the living.

In Lawrence she'd found a perfect hatred.

Unsurprisingly, perfection is overrated.

81. Apathy

Concerned techs filed past her toward the pods and one was pulling her aside to ask questions, voice edgy and upset. She glanced at the bodies being pulled out, and knew death when she saw it. Turning back to the man as he went on she wondered if this would be considered her fault. She didn't see why it should. She wondered if she could leave her shift early. She wondered what she'd have for lunch.

Maybe just a PBJ and root beer.

That sounded pretty good, to be honest.

He was still talking, and with an irritable sigh, America answered.