Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I knew this was coming, but even so, the idea of being without the internet and my phone scares the hell out of me. Each student that is accepted into this particular program is told that because of the foundation’s nature, not only do we have to sign NDAs—which I did the other day—but we have to hand over our phones, and we weren’t allowed to bring laptops, tablets, or any kind of electronic communication device until the program finishes at the end of August.
It will be good for you, I remind myself. You need this break. From everything.
David clears his throat. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to being out of touch. You’ll even welcome it. We’ve found it creates greater comradery between the students, as a bonus. And of course, you get to make calls every Friday, and your family will always be able to contact you.”
He must know I have no family. I figure that’s partly why I got accepted; they learned of my income and orphan status and decided to have pity on me. Then again, perhaps David doesn’t know all the histories of each student. I bite my tongue and manage to refrain from saying anything, even though I have a hard time not correcting people when they’re wrong.
“Since you’ve been on the website, you must know the history of this place?” he asks as we approach the lodge to our right. It’s a dark and foreboding thing, even in the daylight, two stories high, worn wood recently stained a blackish brown. The length of it is perched on the rocks above the shoreline, reminding me of a predator about to pounce. A narrow boardwalk snakes along the front, peppered with the occasional wooden bench, and flower baskets hang on the railing, packed with delicate ferns, their tips wet with dew.
“Old cannery, wasn’t it?” I say. The only sound is the occasional haunting call of a Bewick’s wren and the water lapping at the rocks on the shore. I was expecting it to be bustling with the other students and researchers, but instead, the whole lodge seems to be holding its breath, like it’s waiting for something.
Like it’s waiting for you. The thought flits through my mind, causing the skin at the back of my neck to prickle. Even the row of four-paned windows along the front reminds me of a multi-eyed creature, ever watching.
“Correct.” David’s mild voice brings me out of my overactive imagination. “Was a functional cannery until the 1940s, crab and clamming at first, later salmon and halibut. It was then repurposed into a fishing lodge after that until we swept in fifteen years ago and transformed it into the foundation’s lodge and headquarters.”
“Am I the first to arrive?” I ask as I follow him to the black wood door, noticing a small video camera above it, pointed right at me. I self-consciously correct my posture.
“You’re the last, actually,” he says which takes me by surprise. “Everyone is already in the learning center getting oriented.”
My stomach churns. I hate being the last one, even though it’s common with my time blindness. It’s why I set a million alarms and plan to be places far ahead of time (and yet still end up running late). But this was the plane they said for me to be on, so all of this is out of my control.
“So I’m late?” I whisper as he puts his hand on the doorknob.
“Not late. You’re perfectly on time.”
He opens the door and ushers me inside the building.
Immediately, I’m met with the smell of cedar and woodsmoke, the room looking exactly as a former fishing lodge should. There’s a fireplace at the far end, small flames crackling, an elk head above the mantle. Shelves packed with books run along the worn wood walls, with small native carvings on display. In the center of the cavernous room are leather couches and upholstered chairs with plaid blankets draped over the backs and a couple of rough-hewn coffee tables carved from cedar. In the corner, a staircase leads to the second floor.
“This will be your common room,” he says, gesturing to the cozy space.
To the left of me is a closed door with a reception sign on it. David leads me to it just as it opens and a woman steps out. She’s about as short as I am, maybe five three, in her mid-forties, with a brown bob and thick-cut bangs with a cherubic face, wearing a blue flannel shirt and a load of silver bangles around her wrist.
“Sydney, this is Michelle,” he says. “Michelle, Sydney Denik is here.”
“Our last arrival,” Michelle says, nodding profusely. Her smile is plastered on her face from ear to ear, a little too wide. She extends her hand, her bangles clinking together, and gives me a quick, albeit sweaty, shake. Her hand trembles slightly under my grasp.