November 26, 2009

“It’ll be all right,” she said quietly, trying to reassure herself as much as the unseen person on the other end of the microphone. She did not think that she had spoken loud enough for her word to be picked it up. Her belief was proven false a few moments later.

“No.”

“Yes, it will,” she countered quickly, trying to believe it herself. She had a strong urge to sit on the ground next to the door. Her more rational side won out, telling her that the window in it was heavily opaque and the interior dark. Anyone walking by would not know she was inside unless she triggered the lights again. They would, hopefully, be more far more interested in the guard outside.

She considered trying to figure out how to turn off the speakers, but was reasonably certain that sounds it produced would not carry into the corridor. That would, she decided, defeat the purpose of the seeming privacy of the room. Besides, it was a voice for her outside the confines of the room, even it seemed as uninformed as the turn of events within the complex as she was.

There was very little she could, Cynthia realized, but wait. Security at the front desk had passed her through, so they knew that she was somewhere inside the building. Eventually, someone would come looking for her. She just hoped that it was the right someone.

And where was her father? Her security escort had said that he was inside the building somewhere. Why had he not tried to contact her? She paused, feeling mildly embarrassed. Why hadn’t see she tried to contact him?

Cynthia pulled out her phone and checked the display. No calls and no messages of any kind. That was not all that unusual, but she did find it a little surprising. She had been away campus for several hours. Certainly someone had wanted to talk to her. A moment later, she realized why. The status bar showed that she was currently receiving no connection signal within the building. Her father had often mentioned that, but she had usually considered it an excuse for not remembering to call her. If anyone, including her father, had tried to reach her, they would have been unable to. Nor would she be able to send a message of any kind out to anyone else. Maybe her unseen acquaintance could . . .

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, wondering why it seemed to be taking everything she said so literally. And why was it giving her such short answers? She felt a little guilty as she considered that thought, recognizing that it might be someone who, for some reason, had difficulty speaking and that was why there were here.

“What is it?” she tried again.

“Nick.”

The odd intonation—or what it interference from the speaker system—made her uncertain what she had heard. Was it said “Nick” or “Mick”? She knew of very few people that used the second one, outside of an ancient rock star that her father sometimes listened to, so she decided that she had heard the first. If she was wrong, she was sure that the person would correct her and she would apologize.

“Hello, Nick,” she said lightly. “My name is Cynthia. Cynthia . . .” trailing off as she began to offer her last name. She had intended to provide it and name of her father, but what if this “Nick” was somehow connected to what was happening or if they were overheard. Although she doubted that her father was directly involved in whatever was going on, it was possible that he was. She did not want to put herself or him in any more danger than they might already been in. Her movie-going experience told her that her father could be forced to perform actions rather than see her harmed. Possibly ridiculous and far-fetched, she decided. But why take the chance?

Instead, as she stopped speaking, she felt slightly foolish at the cadence of her voice. She winced slightly, for it sounded to her as though she were addressing a very young or mentally disabled child, sounding out her name for them. She had a feeling that he was neither. If Nick noticed, though, he said nothing.

She waited in silence for what seemed like several long minutes. No further sounds issued from the room’s speaker and she wondered if her invisible companion was still there. He did not seem to speak unless spoken to first, which she found slightly annoying. She hated having to start conversations. It was either that, though, or sit in dark quiet until he did decide to say something . . . if he ever decided to say something.

“Are you still there?” she finally said, sighing at the lame question.

Nick’s answer came quickly.

“Yes.”

Cynthia felt mild relief at that. She was also at a loss, having no idea what to say next. It had been so long since she had talked to someone who was not in one her classes, or had shared some other experience in common, that she had no idea what to say next. So far, Nick had shown no initiative of his own in that regard, so their earlier silence resumed.

To her surprise, it was Nick who broke it a few moments later when he said.

“Scared.”

Cynthia frowned. She had been afraid of that. If Nick was a child, or someone unable to communicate well, she could understand why they might be frightened by whatever might be happening.

“Are you scared?” she asked gently. She was pleased that her own voice quavered only slightly.

“No.”

A puzzled expression replaced her earlier frown. Before she could speak, though, Nick offered up another word.

“You.”

Her gaze swept the room again. Nothing in it even remotely resembled a camera, at least based on her experience. How had he known then? She thought that she had managed to keep it out of her voice, certainly enough that anyone who could not see her would not be able to tell.

Cynthia sighed quietly. What was the harm in admitting it? If Nick was involved with any terrorists, or whoever had invaded the building, he knew she was inside it anyway. If he tried any psychological tricks on her, she could always leave. The guard’s badge could probably get her into any number of rooms to hide in.

“Yes,” she confessed quietly, “I am . . . a little.”

“Yes.”

Cynthia found herself laughing softly, whispered to herself as she responded with, “Thanks for the confirmation.”

Moving one of the chairs so that it faced the door, she sat down at the table; she was tired of standing. She was also beginning to get thirsty, and was certain that she would need to use the bathroom soon, but tried to dismiss both of those items from her mind for the moment.

“Have you been here long?”

There was a long pause and she began to wonder if she asked something particularly troubling to the boy, or if they had been cut off from one another.

Finally, his oddly flat voice returned.

“Yes.”

And then a moment later.

“No.”

#

“Have you been here long?”

The girl’s question was not only unexpected, but it caught Nicholas unprepared to answer it in several different respects. His sensation of the passage of time had finally acquired a certain amount of synchronization now that he could see and a regular schedule had been established. Although he could not witness for himself the transition from night to day within the building, he now had access to clocks once again. He also knew, from what Kincaid and Gerhardt had told him, how long it had been since the accident that had taken his father’s life and, in a way, taken his own as well.

How long was long under these conditions? How long had it seemed to him? Would it seem like a long time for someone else? Nicholas found it once more maddeningly frustrating that his communication still remained so limited. Both Gerhardt and Kincaid had reassured him several times that the problem was being worked on, but that it was very difficult “nut to crack”, as Gerhardt had put it, and the progress had been much, much slower than either of them had anticipated. Only his realization that it must be equally frustrating for them kept Nicholas from getting truly angry about it—at least most of time.

What answer could he give Cynthia that would be meaningful? None at all, he finally decided, when limited to the current vocabulary he had. So he answered as best he could, wondering if she would ask him more about it. And what was it that she was frightened of? Was it him? He did not think so, for she had not yet asked any of the questions that would make him think that she could actually see him or knew what he truly was. Would she stop speaking to him if she found out? He truly hoped not.

#

Cynthia considered Nick’s answers for several moments before giving up. They seemed contradictory, yet she suspected that he was trying to answer her question. With a quiet sigh, she admitted, “I don’t understand.”

 

#

Cynthia walked up to the security desk in the front lobby and handed the guard there her identification card. Her father had arranged for her to receive a permanent Guest pass, but she was still required to have it verified every time she entered the building. She did not recognize the guard who was processing her identification, but the one standing next to the rear desk was familiar. He gave a quick smile, more with his eyes than with his lips, lingering for just a moment, before turning his gaze toward a small group of people entering the foyer.

“Here you go, Ms. Kincaid,” the first guard said, handing her back her identification card. “Please keep it visible at all times.”

Cynthia retrieved her card from the woman’s hand and nodded. It did not seem worth giving a verbal acknowledgment as well.

“Your father does not seem to be in office,” the guard continued. “You can wait here until he returns,” she said. “Or you can be escorted there to wait.” Her tone implied that the first choice would be the most convenient as far as she was concerned.

Cynthia considered the two options for only a moment. She had not anticipated having to wait for her father, so she had brought nothing other than her phone to entertain her while she waited. Her father’s office would at least have some magazines or journals, and maybe some food. She made the latter choice for those reasons, but also because she suspected that it would annoy the snippy guard. The duty guard refused, she would be no worse off.

“I’d like to wait in my father’s office, please,” Cynthia answered smiling, in as sweet a tone as she could manage.

The duty guard’s mouth worked as if she were chewing something bitter. She turned her head slightly in the direction of the other guard. “Joel,” she said flatly. “Please escort Ms. Kincaid to her father’s office.”

The other guard stepped away from the wall. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked over and opened the short, waist-high door and waited while it closed itself behind him. He gave Cynthia a genial smile. “If you’ll come with me, miss.” He gestured toward the short hallway that led to the elevator.

Cynthia gave the duty guard a tight smile, but did not wait for a response. Turning, she allowed the other guard to guide her to the elevators.