The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 17: Becca

The interior theme of the cabin overwhelmingly outdoorsy, like it was designed by a hunter or a very militant Park Ranger. Most of the light has been blocked out by thick flannel curtains, giving the room a stifling, cave-like feel. To make things even eerier, there's a stuffed deer's head hanging above the mantelpiece, its marble eyes black and judging. I can almost feel the deer watching as I walk through the room.

One of the cabin walls is completely taken over by a large, intricate map of Alaska, with red pins jutting out of it at random places. Another wall is shielded by dusty bookshelves and a filing cabinet with locks on the drawers. At the back of the room, there's a shut door that I imagine leads to the Director's private living quarters. It's strange to think about the Director needing to sleep and shower, but I guess that even she is human like the rest of us. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if I found out that she uses the room for wacky shit, like dark occult magic or illegal poker rings.

The majority of the cabin was taken up by a large oak desk that looks like it was carved straight out of the tree, maybe by the Director herself. The desk looks stately and official, carrying the weight of the Director's job on top of it; a chunky white computer, stacks of important papers, a cup for pens and pencils and a slap of yellow Sticky Notes, as well as all the other things that the Director needs to keep the camp running. Its presence swallows up all the air in the room like a black-hole. Still, it's not as intimidating as the woman sitting behind it.

The Director sits on a black spinning chair that seems at odds with its more surroundings, both legs planted steadily on the floor. (I don't the Director is ever not in a power position.) Even though the room is dimly lit she's still wearing her sunglasses. She glances up at me through the reflective silver lenses as I approach.

Director herself, sitting with both legs planted steadily on the floor on a black spinning chair that seemed at odds with its more rugged surroundings. She tilted her prominent chin back to look up at me when I entered.

There's something about the Director's gaze that made me question myself, if only for a moment. I didn't like her when she gave her speech at Initiation. And I like her even less now.

"Hello, Becca," The Director says. "Have a seat."

She points to a folding chair propped up against the wall. I place the chair a safe distance away from her desk and sit down.

"I hope that you know why you're here," the Director says.

A low, menacing growl rises from her feet. When I look down, I almost lose my shit— there's a huge black dog lying underneath her desk, the type of scraggly mutt that could be any and every breed. It's easily sixty pounds of sheer muscle, and it has a thick fur coat perfectly suited for the long Alaskan winters. Its ears are perked up and its teeth are bared.

And it's staring right fucking at me.

"I apologize, I don't think I introduced you two." A slight smile creeps across the Director's face. It's as comforting as the dog's deep growls. "This is Hecate. She's been my good friend for the past four years. Hecate, please be polite to our guest."

Hecate juts her nose in the air, sniffing me out. Her ears twitch slightly and she growls again.

I lean back in my chair. "I don't like dogs."

"Hecate is very well-behaved. She won't bite."

The black dog looked at me, its eyes narrowed almost as if to say, I wouldn't be so sure about that.

My hands tighten into fists. This is why I don't like dogs. Because they're stubborn bastards, and their owners are all liars.

"Hecate, quiet down." The Director fishes a treat out of her pocket and hands it to the dog. It lunges forward, teeth gnashing, but the Director manages to pull her fingers back just in time to keep them from getting snapped off. She places her hands back on the desk. She doesn't even look fazed by the dog's monstrous behavior— like owner, like pet, I suppose.