Page 36 of Our Last Resort

The dollar bill, then, in my pocket. Not to spend. More like a bird I wanted to trap in a cage to better observe it.

Once I’d pocketed the first bill, the rest came easily: two, three more dollar bills, and one of the tens.

The heady thrill of it: stealing from Émile.

I wanted, almost, to protect him. To rescue him from myself.

Once I’d gathered the money, I shut the wooden box, delicious adrenaline rushing up my spine.

I lingered.

I breathed the forbidden air, shut my eyes for a few moments. In my mind, I became Émile, the master of this domain. I played with the idea of it:my desk, my chair, my world.

Then it was time to go.

Check: The desk looked undisturbed. I hadn’t moved anything except for the box’s lid, now back in its place.

There was a sound. Steps.

Shit.

The steps crept closer.

There was nowhere to hide. Not under the desk, not behind a curtain. No exit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Could I leave through the window?

Yes, in theory, but it was too late. The steps were right outside the door and the knob was turning and someone was about to enter, a mother who would punish me, send me back to the Secret Place, tear out another one of my limbs.

The doorknob turned. Slowly, the door opened to reveal—

Not a mother.

Just a man.

The man I’d just held in my mind like a butterfly trapped under a cup.

Émile.

Back early from his trip.

Émile in the flesh: blond curls, polo shirt, a travel bag in his left hand. Standing at the entrance of his office.

“What are you doing here?”

Think.

“I was looking for—”

What?

You?

No.

Émile taught us to observe the world. We could search for knowledge. For goodness. For enlightenment. He urged us to do it. To be curious. Challenge your own mind, always. Look beyond. Look for the truth. Look for more. Look for—

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