\n\u201cSome kids from my Behavioral Economics class are coming over Saturday.\u201d Christof lounges on my bed, eating a slice of sausage and garlic pizza for breakfast.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s nice,\u201d I say with a mouth full of toothpaste. According to my watch, I have six and a half minutes before I need to be out the door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou should hang out with us.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI step into the bathroom that connects our bedrooms, spit, and turn to pull on my freshly polished shoes. They\u2019re gone. I know for a fact I left them by the shower, but all I see are dust balls and tumbleweeds of body hair.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe\u2019re going to Mulligan\u2019s,\u201d my brother says. \u201cThey\u2019ve got live music on Saturdays.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHave you seen my shoes?\u201d Five minutes to go. The fringes of panic creep in as I rip back the shower curtain and search behind the toilet, picturing myself blowing the interview over a pair of lost shoes.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs Christof searches my bedroom, he asks, \u201cDo you think you could get me a job there after I graduate? I figure an insurance company must have a ton of openings with all the weird shit going on. I hear it\u2019s getting worse.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYeah. Sure. I\u2019ll see what I can do.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAt last, I check behind the bathroom door and find my shoes waiting for me on the scale.\n<\/p>\n
\nThree and a half minutes.\n<\/p>\n
\nSitting on the toilet, I pull them on. There\u2019s no reason I shouldn\u2019t knock this interview out of the park. My boss, who\u2019s been insisting I want this promotion, says I\u2019m the strongest candidate.\n<\/p>\n
\nI step back into my bedroom and find that Christof, who is still looking for my shoes, has pulled a clear plastic tub out from beneath my bed.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t touch that!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe looks up, wilted slice of pizza in hand.\n<\/p>\n
\nI shove the tub back where it belongs. \u201cI found them. Thanks for helping me look.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe\u2019s clearly about to ask about the tub when Dad starts shouting again.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHe must\u2019ve lost another client,\u201d Christof says.\n<\/p>\n
\nTwo minutes.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cProbably.\u201d I rush back into the bathroom and wrap my tie around my neck. Put on my jacket\u2026 get in the car\u2026 take Lockwood to avoid traffic\u2026 park \u2026 use the bathroom\u2026 answer their questions\u2026 get promoted\u2026. finally afford to\u2014\n<\/p>\n
\nThe lights blink off.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid we lose electricity?\u201d I step back into my room. \u201cChristof?\u201d My brother is gone.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne minute.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs I walk down the hall the various ways a power outage could interfere with the interview race through my head. \u201cChristof?\u201d He\u2019s probably just checking the circuit breaker.\n<\/p>\n
\nI turn into the kitchen and glance out the window.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sky is crimson.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sun, clouds and blue expanse are all gone, replaced by a solid, fiery red ceiling. There are stars, though. There are more stars than I\u2019ve seen in my life. Every single one glistens oily black, like bottomless holes threatening to suck me in.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stumble back, hitting the pantry door. \u201cI can\u2019t be here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve seen this sky before, in illustrations drawn by people half the world believes are either delusional or lying.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI can\u2019t be here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWith tremendous effort, I pull my eyes from the sky and take in what is waiting for me on the ground. The porch, lawn, and trees are all gone, swept away to make room for a sixty-foot golden-brown wall. There are gaps in the wall, corridors leading God-knows-where.\n<\/p>\n
\nI slide to the floor, shutting my eyes. \u201cI can\u2019t be here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s after midnight. Graduation is in less than nine hours and I\u2019m huddled in my dorm, unable to take my eyes off my laptop. I should be hanging out on the theater roof with Sean, Michelle, and Leo, the socially awkward Freshman who fit so well into our group because we\u2019re all socially awkward. I should be getting drunk on boxed wine, prepping myself to see Dad in seven hours.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut instead of enjoying one last evening before I walk across the stage and enter the \u201creal world,\u201d armed with my brand-new art degree, I\u2019m watching YouTube videos about the end of civilization.\n<\/p>\n
\nFor weeks now I\u2019ve been aware that something was shaking the world beyond my college campus, but it has been so easy to bury my head beneath finals, friends, and midnight runs to Waffle House. Then, just this evening, Christof sent me a video with only a string of exclamation points in the subject line.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn the video, a bunch of high school kids kick a soccer ball up a field. A girl with a long black ponytail sends the ball flying toward the goal, but before it hits the net, she vanishes, as if swallowed by an invisible mouth.\n<\/p>\n
\nFrom there I click on another video, and then another. The blood vessels in my eyes balloon as I watch.\n<\/p>\n
\nA man in Delaware disappears while teaching his daughter how to bowl.\n<\/p>\n
\nA woman in California evaporates from her cell in a maximum-security prison.\n<\/p>\n
\nA boy in Alaska vanishes while leaping off a swing set.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd even more incidents have taken place in Santiago, Lagos, Rio de Janeiro, Hong Kong, Berlin\u2026. Everywhere.\n<\/p>\n
\nAgainst my better judgment, I scroll through the comments. Many claim this is some elaborate experiment conducted by various governments. Others blame aliens, fairies, angels, or witches. Several believe we\u2019re living through a slow-boiling rapture.\n<\/p>\n
\nThey all insist their views are confirmed by a man in Toronto who vanished a year before anyone realized this was an \u201cepidemic.\u201d What sets him apart is that he returned, reappearing in a field over fifty miles from the house where he disappeared.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI was taken,\u201d he says, sitting on a couch between his wife and daughter. \u201cThey took me to another place. Cameras don\u2019t work over there, but I ran into a man who was also taken. He was an artist, and while we were trying to find our way out I learned a few things from him. I painted this to show my family where I was.\u201d He holds up a painting of a crimson sky dotted with oily black stars. Beneath it, a seemingly endless labyrinth stretches toward the horizon.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nHolding my breath, I spray-paint an X at the base of the labyrinth wall.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe hundreds who\u2019ve passed this way have already left their own markings. Messages of love and pleas for mercy accompany smeared collages of piss, puke, and shit. I try not to notice the dark red stains.\n<\/p>\n
\nSticking the spray paint can in my jacket, I continue through the labyrinth, corridor by corridor, leaving behind a trail of green X\u2019s, just in case I need to find my way home.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen people appear in the Labyrinth, they arrive in the places they were taken. The passages are littered with houses, stores, cars, barns, parks, and fields. Once I saw a bouncy castle. But no matter where you go, the golden-brown walls loom overhead.\n<\/p>\n
\nHowever, the places we are taken from still remain in the \u201creal world.\u201d I have no idea if the aliens\/fairies\/angels\/witches made an exact copy of Dad\u2019s house \u2013 down to the soap scum in the shower \u2013 or if there are infinite versions of the tan bungalow \u2013 and its soap scum \u2013 throughout the multiverse.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Labyrinth also contains ruins made of timber, bricks, and furniture nailed together. They are the remains of towers built to scale the walls. Not a single one makes it halfway up.\n<\/p>\n
\nYears ago, when dozens of people started returning every week, I watched an interview with a professional mountain climber who figured getting to the top of a sixty-foot wall shouldn\u2019t be a problem for someone who\u2019d scaled K2. But no matter how hard she pounded her pitons \u2013 those climbing spike things \u2013 she couldn\u2019t make a dent.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne guy from Texas tried breaking the walls with sledgehammers and explosives but soon realized, \u201cThe only way out is to play the Labyrinth\u2019s game.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nEveryone interviewed said there was nothing significant about the moment they escaped. There was no glowing archway, no final boss. They just turned a corner and found themselves back in the real world.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stagger on, continuing my trail of X\u2019s, bent beneath my backpack.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere are no sunrises or sunsets here, just a perpetual crimson sky. We don\u2019t have days, just sleep cycles. I walk for a few hours, sleep on the labyrinth\u2019s stone floor, head buried within the darkness of my sleeping bag, then I walk on.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen I pass buildings, I keep my distance, only searching for food if I\u2019m certain no one is around. I go hungry a lot.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere are more and more pseudo-permanent communities popping up around supermarkets, convenience stores and other food sources. Sometimes people call me over, asking if I have something to trade or just looking for conversation, even if we keep our distance. Sometimes they scream, threaten and brandish homemade weapons.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne elderly man followed me for miles, trying to spit on me.\n<\/p>\n
\nI can go for days without finding a working electrical outlet so I only allow myself a few minutes every sleep cycle to look at photos on my phone. However, as I walk I press the phone to my ear and pretend I\u2019m talking to people back home. I speak with Christof the most. We reminisce about the summer afternoons we spent building a dam by the stream and the time we used a zucchini to make an anatomically correct snowman.\n<\/p>\n
\nDad points out that a real man would\u2019ve escaped ages ago.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy college friends promise a reunion as soon as I find a way out.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen Mom tries to comfort me, I ask why she ditched us.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYour father suffocates everyone in his life,\u201d she says in an agonizingly calm voice.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s why you should\u2019ve taken us with you. You could\u2019ve at least taken Christof. His first memory is of you waving goodbye from the airport van. Why couldn\u2019t you\u2014”\n<\/p>\n
\nEven during imaginary phone conversations, she always hangs up on me.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI spend my first twenty-four hours in the Labyrinth huddled in my bedroom, packing and repacking supplies, assuring myself, \u201cThis is going to be an adventure.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nOne of the first people who found her way out was a woman who was taken while mopping a Burger King bathroom. However, after she returned she published a book detailing her escape. It was turned into a movie starring Jennifer Lawrence (72% on Rotten Tomatoes).\n<\/p>\n
\nI might not end up with a movie deal, but if I survive this, anything else the universe throws at me should be a breeze, right?\n<\/p>\n
\nI sort through Christof\u2019s hiking backpack one more time. I\u2019ve stuffed every piece of non-perishable food in there, a can opener, extra clothes, a compass, and my phone.\n<\/p>\n
\nDad supposedly kept a first aid kit somewhere. It\u2019s not in any of the places that make sense, so I search everywhere that doesn\u2019t. That\u2019s how I end up rummaging through the plastic tub under my bed.\n<\/p>\n
\nAt the beginning of my sophomore year of college, I got into the habit of bringing my sketchpad to parties where I\u2019d sit in a corner with a friend and draw their portrait. It was a trick I came up with, a way to interact with one person at a time instead of having to deal with crowds. I even drew portraits of people\u2019s friends and families totally based on descriptions. No photo necessary.\n<\/p>\n
\nArt seemed so vital back then. While I was in school there were classes, contests, and professors encouraging me to pursue my passion.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen I graduated, the world turned upside down, my student debt ballooned, and my art ended up under my bed. When Dad realized my creativity had fallen to the wayside, he\u2019d smiled, as if this was a plot twist he\u2019d seen coming a mile away.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nPeople are coming.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cRun!\u201d Christof shouts at me through my phone.\n<\/p>\n
\nShoving the spray paint can into my pocket, I run in the opposite direction.\n<\/p>\n
\nA full-sized baseball diamond waits for me around the corner. Working plumbing is as rare as electricity, so most places with dirt are used as massive toilets. I pull my jacket over my nose and duck behind the backstop.\n<\/p>\n
\nTwo men and two women turn the corner. They\u2019re laughing, arms wrapped around each other. Three of them hold nightsticks. The smaller of the women carries a double-headed battle-ax.\n<\/p>\n
\nI try to make myself as small as possible. Back in the real world, I watched YouTube videos about how people in the Labyrinth formed alliances, creating armies who\u2019d devour anyone they came across. There\u2019s usually enough food to avoid starvation, but this is the sort of place where people turn to cannibalism just for the fun of it.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe group has almost passed when the woman with the ax stops and smiles. I almost choke when I realize her hungry grin is directed at me. \u201cHey, greenie!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThey halt and stare. The chain links between us feel tissue-thin.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAsshole!\u201d shouts the taller of the two guys. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he wears a NASA T-shirt, \u201cWe can see you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCan you see this?\u201d The woman with the ax drops her pants, revealing a pasty white ass.\n<\/p>\n
\nThey laugh and continue on their way. The woman who mooned me walks several paces before bothering to pull up her jeans. \u201cWelcome to the real world, shit head. Grow a spine or you\u2019ll be dead in a week.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n
\nIt\u2019s been sixty-eight and a half hours since I arrived in the labyrinth and the final slice of sausage and garlic pizza has developed a distinct body odor flavor in the room temperature fridge. I sit on my bed, where my brother sat when I was taken, and flip through Dad\u2019s collection of Arthur Miller plays.\n<\/p>\n
\nBelieve it or not, Dad used to have a creative side. From the age of eight all the way through college, he stared in everything from Our Town to Hamlet. Then Mom got pregnant, and they discovered you can\u2019t buy diapers with applause.\n<\/p>\n
\nEvery once in a while, Mom would point out that the community theater was putting on auditions. Dad always responded by glaring at her until she lowered her eyes and left the room. He hadn\u2019t acted in years, but he was above such \u201camateur trash.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThese days, Dad mostly lives in the basement, trying to sell office supplies. Once I explained that he\u2019d be better at it if he\u2019d unwind a bit, joke around with his customers. He went off on one of his patented rants about how I didn\u2019t know anything about the real world.\n<\/p>\n
\nChristof is living with that bullshit, by himself, 24\/7 now. We don\u2019t have any other family. Even after he graduates, he\u2019ll be stuck at home until he makes enough money to move out, and that could take years. When I was in college, he texted me every day complaining about Dad.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut he\u2019s older now and has friends. He can escape whenever he wants, right?\n<\/p>\n
\nI throw dad\u2019s copy of Death of a Salesman against the wall. As I gnaw on the final, stale crust of pizza, my eyes scan the room, searching for any kind of distraction. They fall upon the open bathroom door. From this angle, Christof would\u2019ve seen me disappear.\n<\/p>\n
\nI picture Mom waving goodbye from the airport van.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe oversized hiking backpack still lies in the corner, already bloated with supplies. I should sort through it one more time, or at least search for that damned first aid kit. But all I\u2019ll find are more excuses to stay.\n<\/p>\n
\nDropping the half-spoiled crust, I pick up my bag, and head for the door.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI sit on a park bench, clutching the three tattered sketchpads full of maps and faces.\n<\/p>\n
\nTears burn my eyes.\n<\/p>\n
\nSunlight scorches my neck.\n<\/p>\n
\nPeople stare, whisper, take pictures. Parents grip their children. There are too many eyes on me.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sky is blindingly blue. It\u2019s too vast. No walls block the horizon.\n<\/p>\n
\nA police siren screams.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI can\u2019t be here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cHow does this look?\u201d I slide the illustration toward Jason on the far side of the dining room table. He examines the portrait of the fourteen-year-old girl with short brown hair and braces and places a hand over his mouth. \u201cThat\u2019s her. That\u2019s my Emma.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nTypically, Jason looks like the kind of man you\u2019d expect to see braving the Canadian wilderness, chopping down evergreens with a single blow. But at the moment, he resembles a little boy wearing a fake beard, on the verge of tears.\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather leans in close and rubs his back. TJ, who sits in her lap sucking on a spoon smeared with chocolate pudding, reaches out to comfort him.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne way or another, not one of them has a single photograph of their loved ones. Heather lost her phone in the labyrinth. TJ was only four when he was taken. And Jason wasn\u2019t \u201ca phone-owning sorta guy.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve done my best to give them portraits of their loved ones based on descriptions. Since arriving at the farmhouse, I\u2019ve drawn Heather and TJ\u2019s families so many times I dream about them. Now Jason\u2019s daughter will join the gallery in our living room.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll see her again,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe shakes his head. \u201cNicole will never take me back.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather\u2019s arm drops at his ex\u2019s name.\n<\/p>\n
\nJason doesn\u2019t notice. \u201cShe\u2019s got a new husband. Emma\u2019s got a new dad. They don\u2019t need me. It\u2019d just be easier if I\u2026.\u201d He stands and begins to clear the table.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe\u2019ve all had moments like this.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter we wash the dishes \u2013 the farmhouse actually has a working spigot \u2013 we gather in the living room for story time.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen it\u2019s TJ\u2019s turn, he shares tales about his dads and their dogs, adding sorcery and talking animals. I tell embarrassing anecdotes from college. Jason regales us with a continuing saga based on Nordic myths. But tonight is Heather\u2019s turn. Therefore, she takes the place of honor beneath the bull\u2019s skull \u2013 which hangs on the living room wall, haloed by our family sketches \u2013 and tells the story of: Star Wars Episode XVII: The Return of Finn.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs she describes comic-relief droids and Star Destroyers crashing into planets, I sit on the floor, staring at the crimson light peeking through the blinds and think of the last Star Wars movie I saw in theaters. Afterward, Christof and I stayed out until two in the morning, eating hamburgers and talking about\u2026. I don\u2019t even remember. It had all seemed so vital at the time.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter Episode XVII wraps up \u2013on a cliffhanger, of course \u2013 Heather and TJ head off to bed, leaving Jason and me to our books. Whoever lived in the farmhouse before us was addicted to old-school spy thrillers.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy eyes are drifting shut when Jason says, \u201cSome people actually want to come here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIt takes me a moment to realize he means the Labyrinth.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe goes on. \u201cThey spend thousands of dollars on trinkets and make pilgrimages to \u2018holy sites\u2019 that\u2019re supposed to attract this place. When my buddy, Rob, told me about that, I thought they were all crazy.\u201d He stares up, as if peering through the ceiling at the golden-brown walls surrounding us. \u201cBut now I understand.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI thought things would get better when I got back. Or at least go back to normal.\u201d I lean forward in the foldout chair on the edge of the circle. \u201cBut everything changed while I was away. My brother moved to Seattle. All my friends started families. My dad sold our house. And I can\u2019t even leave my apartment without a bag of supplies, in case it happens again. I came back months ago, but when I see people I knew from before, I feel like an actor trying to\u2026.\u201d The words fizzle in my mouth as the door opens.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhenever I attend group \u2013 held in a church basement that perpetually smells of burnt coffee \u2013 I sit so I\u2019m facing the door, in case Heather or Jason walk through. It would be better for everyone if I saw them before they saw me.\n<\/p>\n
\nHowever, the woman who enters the room is almost a stranger. She\u2019s barely five feet tall with short midnight purple hair. I don\u2019t know her, but I recognize her.\n<\/p>\n
\nSomeone thanks me for sharing, and we continue. Others share their experiences returning to careers, catching up with families, friends, and sports teams. A few allude to things they did while traveling the Labyrinth, acts that would\u2019ve sent them to jail for life if they\u2019d occurred in a place that legally exists.\n<\/p>\n
\nI nod along, looking everywhere but at the woman with the purple hair.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt isn\u2019t until the meeting concludes and I\u2019m helping the others clean up that I realize how I know her. I drop the chair I\u2019m stacking, grab my backpack, and rush outside.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe almost stranger is sitting on the church steps, talking on her phone. She\u2019s gained twenty pounds, but there\u2019s no doubt it\u2019s her.\n<\/p>\n
\nFor a moment, I hover at the top of the stairs, feeling like a creep. From what I can hear, she\u2019s talking to someone about fostering a dog. I should walk away and find another group. Reconnecting with this person wouldn\u2019t be healthy. But before I can leave\u2026.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou need something?\u201d she pockets the phone.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSorry.\u201d I open the door. However, instead of scurrying inside, I say, \u201cI think we ran into each other over there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI ran into a lot of people.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou mooned me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe turns and stares like I\u2019m a distant cousin she hasn\u2019t seen since he was a toddler. \u201cYou\u2019re the greenie from the baseball diamond?\u201d Her eyes flicker up and down, taking me in. At last, her face breaks into a smile.\n<\/p>\n
\nOne way or another, we end up in the tavern down the street with a pitcher of their cheapest beer. Her name is Mulberry. \u201cI had a different name before I went in.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI tell her about a theory I\u2019d heard that people arrive in the Labyrinth with wherever they are because it\u2019s a physical manifestation of how we carry our emotional baggage.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe shares a theory on why so little plumbing worked over there. \u201cI hooked up with this one plumber who\u2019d dismantle working pipes. She thought they\u2019d all connect to a shortcut. Honestly, I didn\u2019t buy it. It sounded too Super Mario Brothers.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid she find any killer turtles?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMulberry shrugs. \u201cI didn\u2019t stick around long enough to find out.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nBy ten o\u2019clock she\u2019s told me everything, from the moment she stepped outside the classroom where she taught kindergarten and discovered the sky was crimson, to the moment she found herself standing in a busy Baltimore intersection. \u201cI walked all the way across the Labyrinth just to almost get creamed by a Dodge Caravan.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nBy midnight I\u2019ve told her my story, every word of it, except for how I left the farmhouse. In the version she hears, Heather, Jason, and TJ slipped out of my life just as easily as they slipped into it. The same is true of the three people she traveled with. One minute she\u2019s talking about them like they\u2019re closer than family, then they\u2019re gone, vanished in the time it takes to down a beer.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ve got a really important question for you,\u201d Heather says, walking along beside me. \u201cIn fact, it\u2019s the most important question you\u2019ll be asked all day.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhy can\u2019t a nose be twelve inches long?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cProbably has something to do with cartilage\u2026.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBecause then it\u2019d be a foot.\u201d She makes a \u201cba dum tss\u201d sound.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m not talking to you anymore.\u201d I pick up speed, carrying my box of supplies along the corridor that connects the farm to the warehouse. Among the endless rows of canned food and bottled water I\u2019d found boxes of sketchpads. They\u2019re the Strathmore 400 Series, nine by twelve inches, a hundred sheets each. Just like the kind I\u2019d used in college.\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather hurries after me, a middle-aged mom eager to embarrass the younger generation. \u201cDid you hear about the fire at the circus? It was in tents.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI never should\u2019ve told you I hate puns.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she says, clearly not sorry at all.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stare at the golden-brown wall beyond the farmhouse. From here you can\u2019t see the pleas for mercy written at the base. \u201cWanna know how you can make it up to me?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOnly if it involves more puns.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cConvince Jason.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather stops short. \u201cThat\u2019s not funny.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI face her. \u201cIf we hide stockpiles of food and map out the surrounding corridors, we can make our way further and further out.”\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLeaving is suicide.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThousands of people have already\u2014”\n<\/p>\n
\nShe places her hand over my mouth. \u201cWhile you were wandering the Labyrinth, did you ever notice how most people were from the mid-Atlantic region?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI pull my face away from her hand. \u201cI didn\u2019t make many friends out there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThere\u2019s a theory that everyone in the same part of the world appears in the same part of the Labyrinth. That\u2019s why we never run into folk from Hong Kong, or even Chicago.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know. I saw a bunch of YouTube videos on that.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid those videos also point out that if you can wander around for months and only encounter people from the same region, then the Labyrinth must be tens of thousands of miles across? Why should we risk our lives out there when we\u2019ve got infinite supplies here?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCanned food eventually goes bad. And without a sun, we can\u2019t grow anything.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut we\u2019re safe for now. All that\u2019s waiting for me in that other world is an arrest warrant. And what\u2019s waiting for you? A lousy job? A world that doesn\u2019t appreciate your art?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTJ needs his family.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe\u2019re his family.\u201d She walks away so fast I can barely keep up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s he gonna do?\u201d I ask jogging beside her. \u201cGrow up reading spy thrillers and eating canned potatoes?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s more than most of us get.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nI shove the bathroom door open and shine my flashlight inside, ready to bolt at the hint of a trap. Normally I never enter a room with only one exit, but someone has scrawled two beautiful words across the gas station\u2019s wall. \u201cWorking toilet.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter checking every corner at least twice, I rush inside, drop my pants and sit on the frigid plastic seat. I try to enjoy the novelty of using an actual toilet. However, even though the room is empty, I\u2019m not alone. Heather, Jason, and TJ have joined the pantheon of loved ones who visit when my mind wanders. They come for me when things get quiet and make me relive my escape from the farmhouse.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter I finish, I flush and head for the door. I\u2019m almost out when my eyes land on the mirror. The man glaring back, his face under lit by my flashlight, is older than he should be. His features are ragged, half hidden beneath a tangled beard. It\u2019s his eyes that have changed the most, though. Staring into them, I see the countless miles he\u2019s walked beneath an alien sky. This is what people see when they look at me.\n<\/p>\n
\nI punch him in the face.\n<\/p>\n
\nI mean for my fist to strike the mirror, but it hits my right eye. The intruder tumbles backward, through the bathroom door, into the crimson light.\n<\/p>\n
\nI catch up with him.\n<\/p>\n
\nOr he catches up with me.\n<\/p>\n
\nWe beat each other, tearing and clawing. I rip into him, trying to bring back the boy who once drew comic strips about the sparrows in the park. But I\u2019m all that\u2019s left.\n<\/p>\n
\nShrieking, I fling my backpack across the labyrinth\u2019s corridor. It crashes against the wall. Picture frames shatter inside.\n<\/p>\n
\nTurning my back on the bag that\u2019s held me down this whole time, I walk on, leaving behind canned food, bottled water, the spray paint can that ran dry eons ago, and my cracked and battered phone. I won\u2019t ever take another step under its weight again.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve almost reached the end of the corridor when I stop, run back and pull out the sketchpads and pencils I took from the farmhouse. As soon as they\u2019re tucked under my arms, I begin to walk again.\n<\/p>\n
\nWithout the pack, there\u2019s a lightness to my step. I feel as though I could fly over the walls.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cYou okay?\u201d I call to the boy sobbing on the far side of the bowling alley\u2019s parking lot.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAre you stupid?\u201d Dad shouts through my phone. \u201cThe labyrinth is full of psychos who\u2019d use a crying child as bait for idiot greenies like you. There could be a sniper on the roof. That kid could have a razorblade up his sleeve.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know.\u201d I turn down the passage leading to my left. The boy continues to cry, hands pressed against his face like he\u2019s trying to smother himself. My walk slows to a crawl.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGet out of there,\u201d Dad orders.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stop and glance about, searching for any sign of an ambush. When my eyes fall back on the boy, I notice that he\u2019s peeking at me, face soaked with snot and tears.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAdam, I swear, if you get your throat slit by a toddler you deserve to\u2014”\n<\/p>\n
\nI tuck the phone into my jacket. \u201cI won\u2019t hurt you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis eyes call me a liar.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMy name\u2019s Adam. What\u2019s yours?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe kid opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. \u201cTJ\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m still not convinced this isn\u2019t a trap. I could stand here for the rest of my life and not be convinced. \u201cDo you have friends around here, TJ?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
He nods. \u201cI went exploring and got lost.\u201d
\n\u201cWere you looking for a way out?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHeather says there isn\u2019t a way out.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI almost point out that this \u201cHeather\u201d is either mistaken or lying, but instead I approach him. I\u2019m already certain I\u2019ll regret this, but the boy looks too much like Christof.\n<\/p>\n
\nI crouch down a few feet away. \u201cDo you want me to help you get home?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d TJ asks.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cShhh,\u201d I whisper, placing a folded-up letter on the farmhouse\u2019s kitchen counter. Seven other versions of that letter lay shredded on my bedroom floor. My backpack is stuffed with so many supplies I can barely stand. Now that the letter is in place, there\u2019s nothing left to do but walk out the door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhere we going?\u201d TJ asks again. There\u2019s a shrillness in his voice. If I don\u2019t answer, he\u2019ll make enough noise to wake the others.\n<\/p>\n
\nI drop to his level and whisper, \u201cI\u2019m taking you back to your dads.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhere are they?\u201d He looks over my shoulder, as if expecting to see them standing in the living room.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThey\u2019re still in the other world. We\u2019ll need to travel through the Labyrinth, but\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHeather says we\u2019ll die if we go into the Labyrinth.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHeather\u2019s\u2026mistaken.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow do you know?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI don\u2019t know for certain, but\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSo we could die?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPlease don\u2019t shout.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s too late. Feet clatter against floorboards. I\u2019m tempted to just grab him and run. But before I can decide if I have it in me, Heather tears down the kitchen steps, baseball bat in hand. Jason is behind her with a crowbar. They were both prepared for this.\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather reaches out to TJ. \u201cCome here, baby.\u201d He runs forward, embracing her. Clutching him close, she stares up at me. \u201cDon\u2019t ever come back here again.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThere\u2019s a way out. Thousands of people have already\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cEmpty your pack.\u201d She rises, aiming the bat at me. \u201cThat food doesn\u2019t belong to you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt doesn\u2019t belong to you either. You just found that warehouse before anyone else did. We need to invite more people in, get organized, and figure out a way\u2014”\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cEmpty the pack, Adam,\u201d Jason raises the crowbar, ready to embed the curved end into my skull.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOkay! Okay!\u201d I unzip the bag and tip it over. Cans crash to the floor, denting the tiles. \u201cKeep your damn food. But I\u2019m keeping these.\u201d I charge into the living room and grab a portrait of Heather\u2019s parents off the wall.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t you dare,\u201d Jason growls.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith tears blurring my vision, I stuff the sketches into my bag. I\u2019ll find more supplies. There might be a few sleep cycles where I\u2019ll go hungry, but I\u2019ll be damned if I leave my art behind.\n<\/p>\n
\nI reach for the portrait of Jason\u2019s daughter, grinning with a mouth full of metal.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe charges, swinging the crowbar. I duck out of the way and reach for the closest weapon. My hands clasp the bull\u2019s skull, ripping it off the wall.\n<\/p>\n
\nJason raises his crowbar. Before he can swing, I smash the skull against the side of his head. Bone shatters. He crashes against the bookcase and slides to the floor.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy teeth dig so deep into my lip I taste blood. I only have a moment to regret what I\u2019ve done before the world shatters.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen I open my eyes, I find myself lying with my cheek pressed against the hardwood floor. TJ stands over me, gripping the crowbar. Something warm trickles down my face.\n<\/p>\n
\nHeather pulls the boy back and raises her bat. My head rings so loud I can\u2019t hear my own thoughts, but her lips form the word, \u201cOut!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSomehow, I pull myself up. With my backpack in hand, I stagger out the door and half-tumble down the porch steps. Dizzy and disoriented, I push myself forward, gripping a bag full of other people\u2019s families.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nMulberry and I sit on the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk. It\u2019s unseasonably cool for late September but her girlfriend and the rest of our group splash in the water, laughing and screaming and annoying everyone trying to relax on the sand.\n<\/p>\n
\nFor a while we just sit on our bench, watching the waves, listening to our friends. Then, I startle myself by asking, \u201cDo you want to see what I\u2019m working on?\u201d Next thing I know I\u2019ve pulled my laptop from my backpack, where it\u2019s always tucked away along with a week\u2019s supply of non-perishable food, bottled water and a first aid kit.\n<\/p>\n
\nI open a file and hand her the computer. For a moment she stares at the screen, as if trying to determine what she\u2019s looking at. At last she asks, \u201cHow many have you drawn?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThirteen. Some are a little rough but\u2026.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI trail off as she stares at the first comic in the series, the one where I disappear before Christof\u2019s eyes. Without saying a word, Mulberry opens one file after another, examining each of the black and white strips until, at last, she reaches the one where we met on the baseball diamond. \u201cAnd there\u2019s my skinny ass.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI drew it so my shoulder covers most of you. I won\u2019t post it if you don\u2019t want.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe continues opening files. \u201cThese are good.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI had plenty of time to practice over there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMulberry reaches the latest one, in which I\u2019m expelled from the farmhouse. She stares at this one longer than the others, clearly reading the twenty-one panels over and over. It\u2019s stupid to feel uncomfortable. I\u2019ll be launching the website in a couple months, and then the whole world will see them. Or at least the friends I send links to will.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou never told me TJ did that.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSeagulls scream overhead. A ceiling of storm clouds roll in over the ocean. A lifeguard whistles for people to get out of the ocean.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDo you ever miss it?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n
\nMulberry keeps her eyes on the screen. \u201cSometimes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI lean back on the bench. \u201cI\u2019ve been back for three years, six months, and eight days. That\u2019s almost twice as long as I was over there, but I still can\u2019t sleep without a red light.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI still check the sky to make sure it hasn\u2019t turned crimson.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSo, what was the point?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe point?\u201d She turns toward me.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhile I was over there, I figured everything would be perfect if I could just get back. But I\u2019ve gone right back to the same shitty job, only it pays less. My dad\u2019s still miserable, only now he lives in a tiny apartment. Christof and I haven\u2019t talked since that blowout fight last New Years. The whole reason I tried to escape was to get back to him, and now he won\u2019t even answer my texts. So what was the point?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMulberry turns back to my web comic. For a moment I assume she\u2019s going to ignore my question but at last she asks, \u201cWhat were you doing when you escaped?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWe\u2019ve gone over this a hundred times. \u201cI was just walking along a random corridor. There wasn\u2019t anything unusual about it. I was just walking. Then I realized I wasn\u2019t in the Labyrinth anymore. I was in a park surrounded by people staring at me. It wasn\u2019t until they took me to the hospital that I realized I wasn\u2019t hallucinating.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m still not entirely certain I\u2019m not hallucinating.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat happened right before then?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt was just another day in the Labyrinth.\u201d But that\u2019s not true. \u201cI\u2019d thrown all my stuff away. A few sleep cycles earlier, I\u2019d sort of freaked out in this gas station bathroom. I figured I\u2019d never escape, so I chucked everything but my sketchpads and pencils.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMulberry nods, staring at my laptop. \u201cA little while before I escaped, I realized all I ever wanted was to help animals.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHey love,\u201d her girlfriend runs up to us, a towel wrapped around herself. \u201cThey\u2019re kicking us out of the water. Ready to get changed and grab pizza?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s why I love you,\u201d Mulberry pecks her on the cheek. \u201cYou only have good ideas.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe rest of our friends join us, and we head down the boardwalk. As we walk into our hotel, Mulberry and her girlfriend tell us about the new dog they\u2019re fostering.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\u201cHow does this look?\u201d I turn the sketchpad so TJ can see the illustration. It\u2019s of two men, both wearing glasses. One is totally bald while the other has short brown hair. I expect him to tell me what I need to change, but he takes the sketchpad and stares at it with a smile of recognition.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI bet they miss you,\u201d I tell him.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe nods.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll see them again, when we find a way out.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThere isn\u2019t a way out.\u201d He says it so quietly I barely hear him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSays who?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nJason sticks his head into the living room. \u201cDinner\u2019s ready.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nTJ presses the sketchpad against his chest, and we walk into the kitchen.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter we take our usual spots, we go around the table, sharing one thing we\u2019re grateful for. It\u2019s a tradition they started before I arrived. Heather is grateful for each of us. Jason is grateful for the warehouse of food. TJ is grateful we\u2019re not having canned asparagus tonight.\n<\/p>\n
\nI say I\u2019m grateful that we\u2019ll someday go home.\n<\/p>\n
\nBoth Jason and Heather shift in their seats and lower their eyes. \u201cWell then,\u201d Heather says not looking at me. \u201cAren\u2019t we all lucky to have so much.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUnclasping our hands, we pass around the steaming bowls of canned food and dig in.\n<\/p>\n
Among other publications, Michael Barron\u2019s fiction has appeared in \u201cAfter Dinner Conversation,\u201d \u201cMetaphorosis\u201d and \u201cUncharted Magazine.\u201d He is the vice president of the North Baltimore Chapter of the Maryland Writers\u2019 Association. He blogs at michaeljbarron.com and tweets @Barron_Writer. Michael is a member of the neurodivergent community, and his experiences inspire his writing. <\/p>\n
When he is not writing or reading he is either training for a marathon or working as a librarian at the Baltimore County Public Library, where he leads creative writing programs. He has undertaken a never-ending quest for the world\u2019s greatest hot sauce.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cSome kids from my Behavioral Economics class are coming over Saturday.\u201d Christof lounges on my bed, eating a slice of sausage and garlic pizza for breakfast. \u201cThat\u2019s nice,\u201d I say with a mouth full of toothpaste. According to my watch, I have six and a half minutes before I need to be out the door. …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107935,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20129],"tags":[20130],"class_list":["post-140275","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-48-summer-2023","tag-the-colored-lens-48-summer-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140275","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107935"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140275"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140275\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140276,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140275\/revisions\/140276"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140275"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140275"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140275"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}