Page 130 of Warrior

What if spilling my mind out across pages is my new form of relief?

Dear Reese,

We talked about Terror today.

I thought of you, but not in a bad way.

It was kind of healing.

—Artemis

I’m sick of letters.I take a walk outside, wrapped in a thick red coat. The isle is coated in a fresh layer of snow, and the air is crisp. It’s cold enough to sting when I inhale, so I keep doing it. Big inhale, then exhale a cloud from my lips and nose.

I think they give us red coats so we don’t get lost.

Someone said Christmas is just around the corner, and I can’t fathom that.

We arrived here too fast.

My slip-on shoes don’t have enough tread for this walk. The snow crunches under my feet, and I slide a few times on my waythrough the trees. I just want a break from being inside, and I finally got permission to go into town on my own.

It’s been over a month without any incident. I’ve been walking more, mostly within sight of the low white buildings. I would weave through the tree line, catch glimpses of the ocean through the snow-covered branches, but never went farther.

That darn fear again.

The town—it’s kind of laughable to call it that. There’s a collection of homes belonging to people who live on the island full time and provide for the trauma center and run the shops. Then, closer, there’s one main strip of shops.

A library, a grocery store, a post office.

The letters are in my pocket, sealed and addressed and stamped.

Dr. Hawthorne recommended that I send them, but…

I don’t know.

Instead of the post office, I go into the library. I smile tightly at the man behind the desk. His eyes narrow at the red coat, which would appear to be a signal of exactly what I am. Notwho, butwhat. The category of person.

Which is: trauma-filled.

Laughable.

“Do you have computers?” I ask him.

He inclines his chin and waves his hand toward the back of the library.

“Let me know if you need help,” he calls to my back.

I won’t.

There’s a row of ancient computers against the far wall. I take a seat at one on the end and shed my jacket.

I log in under a fake name and send the message I memorized to an account I’m not sure still exists.

Not two minutes later, I get a reply.

A link.

I click it, and a new window opens.

---