Sometimes We Build Walls

Chapter Two

Take off wasn't as bad as I anticipated it would be. Once we were flying smoothly, the flight boredom set in. I contemplated flicking through the pages I'd already read twice in the newspaper I packed in my carryon bag, along with a granola bar. My attention was caught by a young boy across from me, trying to aggravate the man in front of him by kicking the seat negligently.

Most people slept on the plane after the excitement of the children and stress of the mothers trying to control them died down. The flight was about three hours from Nevada; as we were informed about Boise's weather, the commotion started up again. Parents and children opened their eyes and started talking about the trip ahead of them. The hotels they were staying at, the families they were visiting; by the time we landed, they were practically running out of the airplane in anticipation.

I, however, took my time. I waited until almost everyone was off of the plane until I collected my bags. I trudged back down the aisle and out of the door, dreading the upcoming event.

I didn't know who I was looking for in the busy airport. I kept my gaze on the signs above me, after walking through a few terminals, I reached the baggage claim.

On receiving my bag, I tossed it over my shoulder and my eyes started scanning the crowd, hoping to make eye contact with someone who'd recognize me. I walked back towards the terminal where I'd gotten off.

A man wearing all black was holding a white sign; Charlotte Richards spelled out in small, bold type on the front. The man was wearing glasses; dim ones, and his face was totally expressionless as he stared ahead; he clearly did not know who he was looking for.

I fought back my urge to run to the nearest counter, buy another plane ticket, and head back to Nevada. Instead, I walked forward, towards the man. With a nod, he asked me, "Charlotte Richards?"

"Yeah," I said, cautious. As soon as he heard this, he strolled forward and took my bag.

"I'm Lionel." The man said. "I will be your driver today."

Those were the last words I'd heard from him as I followed him out of the airport. On the side of the road was his immaculate car, black and glossy. He opened the backseat door for me.

"Thanks." I mumbled, sliding onto the leather seat.

This could not have been weirder.

On any other day, with any other strange man picking me up from the airport, I would have been weary. But for some reason, I wasn't. I'd been through this before, and if anything really happened, well-it wouldn't exactly matter to me, much less anyone else.

Lionel put my bag into the trunk, walked around the car, and slid inside.

I was immersed in watching the city; the shops, the people, the buildings. The shops were soon replaced with industries as we were on the outskirts of town, and then we were on a main highway.

The highway lasted for at least two hours, and then Lionel exited onto a country road. I found all of this so mysterious, so weird.

 Tree, tree, tree... another tree. Hill, hill, hill... another hill. The silent car ride did not change as the bends and curves of the roads brought us to the outskirts of Idaho.

Coming thicker in the woods with more sharp turns and hills; the man, Lionel, pulled up to a gate, the name Bennett in fancy cursive engraved on the front. The man rolled down his window, leaned forward, and typed in a pass code, a range of numbers. Then, a speaker beeped.

 "It's Lionel." The man said into the speaker.

 A woman replied, "I'll let them know."

The rod-iron gate slowly pulled back, and Lionel pulled his car in. This driveway curved around a short path, and I felt a pang of misery when, in the distance, I saw dark brick, a house.