Chosen

Chapter 20

Crane's office door is a nondescript gray, just like all the others in this wing of the compound, but it still sends a shiver through me. Even though I've spent a staggering number of hours here during the course of my childhood, it's the first time I've been back since the Choosing. My knock is quiet and timid, and for a minute I wonder if maybe he won't hear and I'll wait outside forever.

"Enter," Crane commands through the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle, slipping inside. The click of the latch sounds too loud behind me.

The office is stark and minimal, but the furniture and items it does have are luxurious, items we can't even make anymore. My father is seated in a throne-like worn leather chair, behind a wide wooden desk. The desk itself is simple, but the fact that it's made of something other than metal is what makes it special. Most wood furniture has already been repurposed into smaller tools or burned for fuel as it breaks down. A small wooden bookshelf stands off to the side, full of beautiful hardbound classics, each wrapped in its own plastic protector. I remember my grandmother Juniper showing me one of them once, carefully turning the pages so I could see the printed words. Crane has never touched them since he became chief.

Crane gestures for me to sit down in a rigid metal chair, on the opposite side of the desk. I comply, crossing my legs and resting my hands in my lap, trying to project a confidence I don't feel. He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. It's the first time I've seen him in awhile, and to my surprise the lines in his face look more prominent up close, betraying stress and weariness. "So," he says, switching to tapping a strict rhythm out on the desk with his fingers.

"So..." I echo, wondering where this is going.

He says and does nothing, giving me time to get more nervous and uncomfortable. The metal of the chair is digging into my shoulder blades. I struggle not to fidget, but my hands still twist themselves in my lap, waiting.

Eventually, Crane leans forward, crossing his arms and balancing his elbows on the edge of the desk. "How was your visit with your grandmother yesterday?" He inquires, raising an eyebrow. It makes him look sinister, despite the pleasant tone he's adopted.

"It was fine. Nice," I venture cautiously.

"Did she happen to seem...out of sorts?" He presses a little.

"Is she okay, by the way? While we're on the subject?" I say sharply. "You didn't have to have your thugs manhandle her like that, in front of everyone."

Crane's eyes tighten, and the pleasant tone evaporates quickly. "She is absolutely fine. I can assure you that my security team was professional and gentle. Your grandmother, on the other hand, should know better than to make untrue and incendiary statements before the entire community."

"Well, can I see her?" I retort, growing angrier by the second.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You may see her during visiting hours next month, as usual. Provided she is up to seeing you," Crane tacks on to the end, becoming irritatingly calm and collected once again. It's then that I see that he will take what he can and use it against me. My best way to move forward with minimal damage is to not give him any more ammunition.

"Alright," I concede, leaning back in my chair, allowing the metal to dig more harshly into my skin through my shirt. I cross my arms too, in a position both defensive and defiant.

"I'll ask you one more time, how did your grandmother seem yesterday before the festival?" Crane maintains his cool detachment.

"And I'll say one more time, it was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary came up," I say curtly.