The ladder's rungs were coated in old green paint that flaked off under Melanie's grip and clung to her clammy skin. About 15 feet down she stepped to the dusty, leaf-strewn concrete floor. To her left lay an archway, dimly lit by the same kinds of lamps she recognized from subway tunnels; she was immensely relieved and comforted by their presence. She looked back up at the sky through the grating--a vivid, overly-bright blue. A single pulled-puff of cotton candy cloud drifted by. She regarded again the archway, its amber lamps like eyes in the darkness.
She walked through.
The tunnel smelled of dirt, but not a fresh dirt, not of living soil; of compressed layers of dust. Of neglect. Of old corners in disused basements. Of cellars and broken sheds. Of things stored and forgotten.
Wires loped along the walls, which had eroded in crumbling chunks, littering the floor with bits of rubble. As Melanie's eyes adjusted, she could see more easily the cracks in the floor, the holes in the wall, and the skittering movements just out of peripheral vision. She assumed mice (or rats), but she wasn't sure she cared to examine more closely.
Several minutes walk along the dark tunnel, she came to a dead end: a bricked over archway. She retraced her steps, looking for a side exit that she had missed, but there was nothing; just the flat tunnel with its impenetrable wall.
She walked right up to it, feeling her fingers over the brick; they came away with a thick layer of dust on the tips. "I don't understand," she whispered to herself, or perhaps to the subway mice. She pushed, tentatively on the brick, but it stayed solid. She sighed, and leaned her back against it, rubbing the dust off her on her jeans, leaving streaks down her thighs, before looking down and noticing the a small stand, in the corner on her right, in shadows and nearly invisible. Mounted on the stand was a glass-and-metal box, with a slot on the top. A fare box, also coated in dust.
Melanie, very slowly and deliberately pulled the tote bag off her shoulder, her left hand rummaging blind in the corner, where she knew it would have collected. A shiny silver token, about the size of a dime, rimmed in bronze and ridged. She examined it, squinting in the faint amber light: one side was the logo of the TTC, a shield and banner, with tiny raised words that she couldn't see but knew by heart. Valid for one fare. The other side, instead of bearing the name Toronto Transit Commission had instead a miniscule picture: three parts, like a clover with something round hanging over it, but the shape was too tiny and the light too faint. She wished she had examined it on the streetcar ride, in the full sunlight.
She leaned over and deposited the token into the fare box. There was a pause and then a chu-chunk noise as the fare was accepted.
Suddenly, Melanie could feel a draft on her left. A revolving gateway suddenly appeared in what had been blank wall. Instead of actual doors the thin entryway had only metal prongs, mounted in three blade-like arrangements, like hair-curler, mounted vertically. Above the red trim was the word ENTRANCE.
She repositioned the Loblaws tote on her shoulder, and, with a deep breath, pushed her way through.
*
I just don't know if it's a good idea, he had said, as they strolled through the neighbourhood one evening, snow falling thickly around them. I don't want to rush into anything.
She had laughed, had thought it a good joke, but the expression on his face had sobered her up. You're serious.
He squeezed her hand, then, his gloves and her mittens making a slight rasping noise, barely noticeable except in the hush of the snow. Why shouldn't I be? he had asked her, looking down at her, frowning. It's a big decision.
I just mean... so often she stumbled for words around him. Around others she was articulate and quick-witted, but with Adil, the faculty just left her, stranded. What she had wanted to say was: You rush into so many other things. Adil wanted to be a deliberate person, she knew, just as she wished she could be more confident, more determined, but with him (as with her) his deliberateness was like an ill-fitting suit that he thought made him more attractive. He wanted to be a calm, focused person, when in reality, his thoughts ran like quicksilver. She knew this about him. She could see it, could see his mental gears, and they were always spinning, even though he forced himself to weigh each word.
And here he was again, forcing them to go slowly when she knew that he, too, longed to just press his foot to the pedal, to charge streaming into the breach.
I know it's a big decision, it'll tie up all our savings, but I just think... I just think it makes sense. From an financial point of view. The market's so good right now... She trailed off, knowing how fake she sounded, looking at warm windows through the filtered gray winter evening. The curtains were half-drawn and yellow gleamed through, beckoning, to a family that wasn't hers. She wasn't saying what she felt, and it came out wrong.
He pulled her in then and kissed the side of her head, his lips cold against her temples. There's no need to rush, he had said, easily, knowing that he had won this round. We can start looking later on in the spring. We have all the time in the world.
*
Through the revolving door, her eyes closed, she emerged into an atrium, open and wide with high ceilings, every inch of it tiled in white ceramic squares. It was in a sad state of disrepair, with parts of the walls crumbled, many tiles cracked, and a thick layer of dust over everything, except a clear path in a straight line from the door to a platform. She walked towards the edge, her footprints clear and impressively distinct, as though in thick regolith. She stopped a few feet south from the shiny pathway, and looked down; sure enough there were rails. It was a subway station.
She looked behind her and there, sand-blasted into the wall, in the geometric script easily recognised the city over, was the word GRANGE.
But there was no Grange station on any of Toronto's subway lines.
A rumbling overhead and dust showered down in curtains; a couple of tiles fell as well, shattering, the noise startling loud. Then all was thick silence.
Motes dancing around her with each breath, she considered her options. She didn't bother to look behind her at the door; she knew that the spines only turned one way, and that the words above would say NO EXIT. So that left either waiting for the train--she disliked this idea immensely, and, although she couldn't explain to herself why, the idea of waiting in the shiny spot at the end of the trail filled her with dread. No, that wasn't an option. Which only left the one.
Making sure that her bag was secure against her shoulder, Melanie clamboured down off the platform, being careful to avoid the tracks. She knew the third rail was electrified (at least it was with normal trains on normal tracks) but she honestly couldn't say which one was the third, and felt it prudent to avoid all three. At the right-hand-side was a series of three mounted beacons, like traffic lights, with the top being green and lit. Since she had no other way to make up her mind, she chose that direction and began to make her way towards the tunnel, keeping as close to the wall as she could.
The track curved, gently but noticeably, before coming to an intersection where it joined another, opening into the stem of a Y. At the junction more signal lights, all green. Melanie stopped, hesitant about which way to go, or indeed how far she should be going; perhaps she was heading in the wrong direction already?
While deliberating a rumbling begin under her feet, a low, ominous, utterly familiar sensation. Panicked, she whirled, trying to spot headlights in the gloom, but nothing was visible. Hopping over the rails, she pressed her hands against the left-hand wall: the rumble was much stronger. She peeked around the crumbling corner and could make out two round circles of light, coming closer. The signals at the junction turned red.
It wasn't a subway train coming towards her, but a streetcar--confirmed by the clang of its bell as it approached the junction--of an old-fashioned style that Melanie barely recognized as belonging to her city.
Rounded where the usual cars were angular, and smaller: its top half coloured cream, its lower red, both trimmed in chrome like gaudy wainscoting. It rattled towards her and then creaked to a halt, the front doors opening with a wheeze.
She jogged up to it, her right arm pressing her tote to her to keep it from flapping.
An older white man with greying, receding hair and bristling beard, clad in maroon TTC livery, poked his head out into the tunnel. "This ain't the station!" he exclaimed, whether surprised or irritated at her, she couldn't tell the difference. "You're supposed to wait at the station. What sort of moron..." he trailed off, then pushed up-and-back his flat-bottomed peaked transit cap. "You're alive?"
Melanie nodded.
He just stood with his hands on his hips, regarding her frankly, as though she were a dog on her hind legs or an electronic device that was particularly new-fangled. "Well doesn't that just take the cake! Lois, we've got a live one. Look at that, look at that." Lois, the driver, similarly attired in burgundy, slouched over her controls, propped up on one bored elbow, chin against her hand.
"Um..." Melanie cleared her throat after the silence stretched on too far. "Um... can I ... I mean, are you taking passengers? I paid my fare."
"Well now, I don't know about that, miss," he said, finally, regarding her more beadily. "You might have paid a fare, but that doesn't necessarily... what I mean is, you're not at a station. We're only supposed to pick people up at a station, isn't that right, Lois?"
Lois: silence; slight raising of the shoulders.
"I could go back to the station." Even as Melanie spoke, she knew how wrong a suggestion it was. "Or I could just keep walking, I guess..."
"Well, we can't have you doing that either," the conductor replied, peevishly. "You've put me in quite a quandary, all right, you being here. I've been a conductor on this line for quite a while now, and never before--well there was that one fellow but I wasn't on duty--never mind him. Tickets on this line are strictly one-way, miss. No pass-backs. No doubling up on fares. And I don't think this is the right line for you anyway, since you're breathing and all. Back me up here, Lois."
Lois: silence.
"You said someone did this before?" Melanie asked, hoping for a loop-hole, a precedence.
He scratched at his receding hairline, under his flat-brimmed burgundy cap. "Well... yes."
"And you let him on?" she pressed.
"Not me, but... yes..." It was all the signal that Melanie needed; she started up the stairs but he blocked her way. "Hey now!" he exclaimed. "We could get in a lot of trouble for this, couldn't we, Lois?"
Lois shrugged in silence once more, and, as soon as Melanie moved up to the second step, pulled the lever to close the door. She sounded the bell twice, and out in the tunnel the lights turned green.
The old streetcar lurched to a start. Finding her transit legs, Melanie took a seat on an empty bench underneath the swaying leather loops that dangled down for the benefit of standing patrons.
The conductor sat directly across from her, behind the driver, glaring, thwarted. The rest of the car was empty.
With nothing to distract her outside, and wanting to ignore the conductor's stink-eye, Melanie stared around the interior. She had expected from the antiquated exterior that it would have been just as old-fashioned inside; wooden slats, perhaps. Instead it was remarkably similar to the modern streetcars--although instead of velour the seats were red vinyl, the kind that bare flesh inevitably stuck to in the summer. The most remarkable thing to her was the lack of ads; she supposed the car's design predated the idea of space as a commodity. Or perhaps she was just jaded.
One thing that did catch her eye was the emblem above the driver's head. Instead of the familiar TTC shield logo, it depicted a stylized trio of snarling dog's heads, underneath a feathered helmet. She started to feel ice again in her stomach, as she recognised the design from the token.
A one-way trip...
Had Adil stood there, on that dust-free, well-trodden trail on Grange's platform? Had he sat--or more likely stood, he liked to stand on streetcars--on this very vehicle? Taken this same journey?
"You know, people think this is an easy job, but it's not," the conductor said, suddenly, over the rattling of the wheels on the tracks. "People giving us all sorts of lip, getting on the wrong line, trying to hassle the driver, not paying their fare--it's very stressful. On top of that, long hours! Some days I just feel like packing it all in, but here I am. And who's going to get it in the neck from Management? Me, that's who."
"I'm sorry," Melanie said, automatically.
He harrumphed, but seemed slightly mollified. "You know, the conductor before me ended up in early retirement. She earned it, and all, but still, that's what this job does to you."
"You said someone got on before? And that turned out okay?"
"I didn't say anything of the sort!" he retorted, going red about the ears. "You must have gotten this far with help, that's what I'm thinking, but between the two of us, it's no good. Management does not take kindly to breaking the rules."
Lois coughed.
The conductor went even redder around the ears, spreading across his high forehead. "And why shouldn't Management want the rules kept? Rules are there for a reason, and if one person bends them--" more coughing "--then you might as well not have any at all--" loud coughing now, not a delicate tickle of the throat but a clearing designed to get attention, "--meaning we'll have anarchy aboveground as well as below, and don't think I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, Lois!"
Melanie waited, expectantly. When the conductor folded his arms and crossed his legs, she asked, as gently as she could, "But there is a way in, isn't there?"
Silence from the conductor, very pink in the face, but with something more like embarrassment than anger. Two more fake coughs from Lois.
"Okay, okay," he said, sighing, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead before replacing it. "Management is very strict about rules, and nothing changes that. But Upper Management... Upper Management has been known to... make exceptions, occasionally."
"Really?" Melanie asked, hope rising, the icy feeling thawing. "So I should ask to talk to Upper Management directly?"
"Well, you'll probably talk to them both, if you get that far," he replied, uneasily. "And, if I were you, I'd be very careful what I say to Management." He went quiet, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped low. Melanie leaned in. "Management makes the rules, you see, and rules are meant to be kept; but there's nothing stopping 'em from making one rule to contradict another, if you know what I mean."
"I'm not sure--" Melanie began, but was interrupted by Lois suddenly--and rather startlingly--calling out "Last stop!"
"Last stop!" the conductor repeated, getting to his feet with practiced legs. He walked up and down the aisle, calling out, even though there was only Melanie seated.
As the streetcar clattered to a halt, she disembarked--smiling at Lois who seemed just as bored and disinterested as ever--stopping at the foot of the steps to stick her head out.
Their destination was another unbuilt station, this one called YORK. "Hey!" She pointed at the sand-etched tiles. "York Street is only a couple of blocks from the Grange--but we were en route for ages--"
"Time is subjective, especially on transit, you should know that," the conductor said, standing behind the yellow line, frowning. "Especially especially down here. Anyway, this is your stop. If anyone asks, you walked. Good luck, and please move along, there are other passengers waiting."
Obligingly, she stepped down and out of the way, although the dust lay just as thick as at Grange, and also oddly enough worn away from the station edge to the door.
The closer and longer Melanie looked, the more she fancied that the dust around the edges of the trails fluttered.... very... slightly... as though something of minimal mass disturbed it. The hairs on Melanie's neck and arms threw themselves into disarray and she scrambled backwards out of the way of any disembarking "passengers".
"Good luck!" the conductor called out again, as Lois closed the doors and rang the bell twice, the ancient red-and-cream rocket lurching off on its way.
Picking her way through the uncleared section, Melanie crossed the platform. She pushed through the revolving barrier with the overhead EXIT sign that made the familiar cha-chunk noise as it turned, signifying that it turned only the one way. Nowhere to go but onwards.
The other side was beige tiles in a steady-state of griminess; fluorescent panels buzzed overhead, flickering every few feet. A draft was wending its way around her, carrying an unpleasantly musty, vegetative smell—not quite dried compost--with it. The passageway seemed to go onto the horizon, disappearing to a tiny dot, making it even longer than Spadina's northbound corridor.
Sighing, Melanie trudged.
Lost in a haze of endless walking, she didn't notice where the dog came from; only that it was suddenly there, in front of her, ten feet away.
She stopped abruptly, trudging woes vanishing, her mouth dry, her tote clutched. Ever since she had seen the alternative transit logo she'd had a vague idea of what to expect, but coming face-to-muzzle remained a surprise.
The dog was large (expected), glossy black (ditto), with an upright carriage and pointed ears (sure, why not). She hadn't forseen the red collar with the silver bone dangling name tag.
Merely twitching in a general forward direction set the dog to its elegant, lethal growling, ears back and teeth showing, full of promise and intent.
Very slowly and carefully, she reached with her cross arm into the tote bag, aware the dog watched her closely, and groped around the bottom. Her fingers located her target, and she grasped it firmly, a muffled -eee- escaping through the cloth.
At the sound of the squeak, the dog stopped growling, its ears pricking forward. It barked once, sharply, then lowered down slightly on its front legs, tail wagging briefly, waiting to see what Melanie would do next before it committed itself to one emotion or another.
She pulled the furry toy squirrel from the bag, the dog's eyes tracking her movement. She hesitated. She only had the one chew toy and had a feeling that there were two more dogs out there.
An intuition soon confirmed: drawn by the first dog's bark, a second hound emerged from the end of the corridor (an near-invisible bend, she could now see) and jogged down to join its partner, ears forward, tail held high but not wagging. It touched noses with its twin--identical except for a splash of brown across one hind leg and an ear--and then swiftly turned its attention to Melanie and the toy she held aloft.
She held the squirrel out, inviting investigation; the dogs sniffed, wagging once (as if politely). She squeezed it again, which solicited more wags but also definite glare from the first animal, clearly getting impatient. Not sure how much longer it would wait, and deciding two dogs were better than one, she got ready before noticing something nosing around the end of the hallway. Small, but a tawny doggish colour.
Melanie whistled, as loudly as she could. She had all three dogs' attention now. Twisting, she whipped the squirrel behind her, down the long corridor she'd trudged. The twin dogs were off immediately, bounding and barking joyously. The third dog was a streak of tawny little legs as it passed her, rushing to catch up.
As soon as they were behind her, she ran.
The corridor's end lay just a few meters after the bend, ending in steps up to a pair of swinging doors with metal push panels. She took the steps two at a time and shouldered through the threshold, winded.
They flapped to a close behind her as she paused for breath and her mouth fell open.
She stood in a vast, vast, measureless spiraled cavern. The immediate ceiling was low, and, like the walls, unpainted concrete. Massive round pillars of more grey poked through what could only be described as a jungle--but a jungle of only one kind of plant in particular, growing several feet high and sending out a familiar dusty vegetation odour. Bright blue-white lights hung on chains every few feet; fans whirred somewhere out of view, but she could feel their strong draft.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice muffled and small.
Deciding there was nothing to do but explore, she set off along an aisle, careful to make as much noise walking as she could. It occurred to her that it might not be wise to sneak up on anyone doing such an intensive amount of "gardening".
Yellow lines had been painted on the cracked concrete floor, running occasionally across her path and disappearing into the orderly-but-bushy rows. The hot air around the lamps and the smell soon made her drowsy.
*
Are you sure you won't join us? Addy had asked, as he got ready, selecting a jacket from the hall closet.
Melanie had responded with a tired shrug. It had been a long day, which he knew. She had already explained that she was too tired to socialize, refraining from adding that Adil invariably staggered home drunk in the wee hours and she had been up early that morning and had another early day planned for tomorrow. Carousing was not in the cards.
Have fun.
We will.
She leaned down to kiss him while he was tying his shoes; she misjudged and kissed his hairline, coating her lips in hair product, one that he used in vain attempt to tame his curls. She grimaced, giggling, trying to wipe it free, but before she could, he had straightened up, laughing too, and kissed her, gooey lips and all.
I'll be quiet when I come in, he had said, still smiling. I know you have a busy day tomorrow.
Have fun, she repeated, as he reached the door. I'll see you later.
*
Something wet and low-down touched the back of her leg. She jumped in alarm and found a small tawny-coloured corgi gazing up at her. In its mouth was the toy squirrel, thoroughly soaked in drool and missing a leg, bleeding stuffing. The corgi wagged its stubby tail and dropped the chew toy at her feet. She crouched down, letting it smell her fingers, which it did before giving her hand a lick. She scratched it behind the bat-like ears and it sat, tongue lolling happily, one tiny back-leg tucked under itself (he was a male dog) to avoid contact with the cold concrete. The dog's posture allowed his yellow collar, with the silver tag--in the shape of a paw-print--to be visible, the name in small caps.
"Hi, Sielu," Melanie said, scratching him under the chin. "Want to play fetch again?" The dog yawned. "Well, all right then." She straightened up. "I need to get going and find my way out of here." She patted him on the head once more and then starting walking in her original direction. Sielu picked up the discarded toy--she heard it squeak forlornly as he gave it a gnaw--to follow her, his nails little clicks on the floor.
At a crossroads--nothing but parallel yellow lines, pillars and leaves to decide between--Melanie kept going straight, but the little dog dropped the squirrel to pull at her jean cuff until she yielded. He yipped a few times, picked the toy back up and then turned right, stopping to make sure she understood.
She shrugged, following the trotting corgi.
A few twists, turns, and an indeterminable amount of time later--the wee dog always barking or nipping if Melanie tried to pick a different route--they emerged into a clearing, devoid of plants, the yellow lines clearly visible as parking spaces. At the centre two figures reclined in lawn chairs, underneath two big studio lamps.
Sielu bounding towards them, tail wagging furiously. Melanie approached more cautiously. All around her the plants rustled; the air smelled more fresh. She looked up high overhead to mounted fans, a welcome gust from outside. Her head felt a little clearer already.
The two figures straightened up in their chairs.
"Um... hello?" Melanie called out, feeling incredibly awkward. She moved closer; hesitated; moved closer again.
The figure closest--a woman--waved her over with a free hand, the other draped over the side of the lawn chair to pet the dog. "Come, come!"
Melanie did but stopped a few feet away. The woman looked to be mid-twenties, with a dark olive complexion and curly chestnut hair; she wore a green bikini and was exquisitely gorgeous, like a model or a movie star.
Her companion, a middle-aged white man, did not resemble someone in front of a camera. Thinning brown hair and a greyish pallor, combined with a baggy tee and cargo shorts said not so much "celebrity" as "IT specialist stuck in a basement for far too long". Considering their surroundings, the description seemed apt. He pushed his sunglasses onto his high forehead, eyes watering in the sudden bright light.
The woman lifted her own large sunglasses to give Melanie a look over. "I don't think she's supposed to be here," she said, in English tinted with Spanish shading. "She seems far too solid."
Before Melanie could retort, the man replied. "I agree, far too opaque to be here. Better question is, how did she get here? Could she have wondered in from one of the tunnels? Or did she take--" here he sneered, "--the 'better way'? Because if she did, I am going to have Abe's head on a platter."
"I walked," Melanie said, at last feeling firm footing: she had reached Management.
"I doubt she could have taken transit," the woman continued, running over Melanie's words, still regarding her from under raised shades. "Where would she get the token from?"
Sielu, wagging his tail again, tried to hop onto the woman's lap, or, at least onto the lawn chair; his mistress pushed him back down but not before he deposited the squirrel against her leg. She picked the sodden toy up with pincer fingers, nose wrinkled. Then a look of dawning spread across her elegantly made-up face. "Wait, isn't this dog toy your sister's? I could have sworn I saw her and that horrible assistant of hers playing fetch with it at the barbeque two weekends ago."
He took the squirrel from her, shaking the loose drool from it. He squeezed it; it wheezed once. "Yeah, maybe?"
They both turned their gaze to Melanie simultaneously, who flinched, then cleared her throat. "O Shining Ones..."
The woman waved it away, much as Maotoùying had done, with the same irritated and impatient expression. "I hate when they do that."
"It is annoying, and such a weird--I wonder if this is his idea of a joke?"
"His?" she replied, confused.
"This would just be like him, to set up something like this. She probably thinks she's going to get help." He lay back, replacing his sunglasses. "What a waste of time." He put his hands under the nape of his neck. "Don't bother paying her any more attention, honey. Let her find her own way up."
But Melanie and the woman regarded each other. When the younger took her sunglasses off completely, her brows knitted in curiosity, with just a touch of concern wrinkling delicately around her eyes, Melanie knew she had made a slight connection and knew, just as clearly, what she had to do.
She had to talk.
She intended to make it a plea, but as she began, the words shifted, aligning themselves instead with an explanation, almost a justification. She began where it all ended: that last night.
Addy had left to go hang out with his university buddies. They had bar-hopped in the downtown until quite late, until the earlier locations started closing. They were between one club and the next, joking, laughing, stumbling, when they came across a group of younger men. The younger men, just as drunk but more rowdy, had lobbed a racial slur at one of Adil's friends, and at Adil himself. Words were exchanged, words that turned to fists. Fists that turned into a broken bottle. And then, in the thick of it, a knife.
The knife wielder had been a kid, the friends had said. Young, white, dark hair, with a tattoo of a snake wrapped around his wrist. He and his buddies had gotten away as Adil's friends, in their drunken, disoriented panic, tried to care for him on a suddenly deserted street. By the time the ambulance came it was too late.
She wanted to talk about Adil, about his kindness, humour, loyalty, but what came out as she spoke was not about him at all, but her. The unspeakable trio of loss, pain, and loneliness, that wrapped around her like a cloak, cutting her off from those around her. She began to talk fiercely about her determination, to go as far as she could, to do all that needed to be done to bring him back. She would hang onto her grief until she joined him. Either way.
The woman--though still reclining--clutched Sielu in her arms, having picked him up as the story began. He lay limp in her arms, ears drooped.
Melanie stopped, breathing in small shudders. In the dry air, she felt parched. Depleted. She sank down to the asphalt, legs tucked under her, while all around the plants rustled against each other, blending into the shush of the fans.
"Fetch him," the woman said faintly.
Her companion stirred. "What?"
"Please."
"The hell I--"
She whirled on him then, her face hidden from Melanie's view but no doubt filled with fury, for her companion sat upright, alarmed.
"Fine," he snapped, his previous irritation spreading back over his features. He swung his legs around, off the edge, and for the first time addressed Melanie directly. "Fine. I'll fetch what you've lost. But don't think you've won," he added, seeing the brightening of her face. "There is a way that things are done around here, there are certain rules that are meant to be kept, and I don't care how many of my family members interfere on your behalf. It changes nothing." He clapped his hands together a few times, yelling: "Meili! Elin!"
Within a heartbeat, the two big dogs came barrelling out of the plants, touching noses with Sielu, jumping up on the chairs, before settling at their master's feet. He reached down and pulled a clipboard from underneath his recliner and pointed to a list. The hounds touched the paper with their noses once and then rushed away, barking loudly.
Surprised, Melanie blurted: "You knew him. You knew who I was talking about."
He sniffed. "Of course I did," he said, his voice heavy with derision. "You think my idiotic nephew is the only person who listens to Oracle gossip? True, I didn't modify a police scanner to pick up psychics like he did, but then I mind my own business."
"Thank you," Melanie said, deeply meaning it.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"Thank you," she repeated, louder. "I mean... I don't know how else to say it, but--thank you. Very much. To both of you. I can't say how much this means."
He shifted uncomfortable, going back to reclining; she looked thoughtful. Melanie dropped her gaze, tucking the tote against her side tighter until something poked against her ribs. "Oh!" She pulled the small wrapped present from the bag and handed it to the woman. "Sorry, I forgot. I was asked to give this to you."
The woman frowned, regarding the gift with its garish paper wrapping with confusion. She opened the attached envelope, and pulled out a gift tag. "It's from my mother."
She tore through the wrapping, and pulled out a wee wooden box, decorated with glued sea shells. As she opened the lid, the rich smell of the seaside filled the air and Melanie fancied she could hear tiny seagulls and the lapping of waves.
He groaned. "Your mother never can just send an ordinary gift, can she?"
She said nothing, her face twisted in consternation and longing, as she traced her finger over one of the shells. Sielu, still in her lap, whined and licked under her chin.
Melanie stood to the side, feeling an optimism rise like a caffeine high, a surge of hope and a jitter of impatience. Her eyes darted around for any sign, but no matter where she looked there was movement in the rustling leaves.
Instead the sound of dogs alerted her. She tracked their barks, barely breathing, twitches of anticipation up and down her arms, her hands clenched to keep them from shaking.
And then it happened.
He stepped from the thicket, Meili and Elin at his side, yipping, tails wagging. He drifted towards her, his steps not quite connected to the ground. Slowly. So slowly. She fought the urge to run to him, to seize him by the face, to kiss him and hold him as she did in each daydream.
The man was suddenly beside her—in her preoccupation she hadn't seen him rise from his lawn chair--held up his hand. Both dogs stopped, tails dropping. "That's close enough."
Melanie drew breath to question but he cut her off. "You think you're done, eh? You think you've won." He stood and took off his sunglasses, glaring at her. "Is that the shade you wanted?"
"The... shade?"
"Is he--" a finger rudely jabbed in Adil's direction "--the one you came here to find?"
She studied the neutral, wavering figure closely. His eyes were vacant. Bruising spread across one cheek; he still wore the clothes he had left home in, only now covered in dark stains. She couldn't stop, her mouth dropped in rapt horror--
The man grabbed her by the elbow, jerking her attention away. "Is he the one you sought?"
"Yes--yes!" She pushed herself away, repelled by the closeness. "Adil--"
"He's not yours yet." His voice had lowered, and his lips curled. He pointed at the far end of the clearing to a curved ramp leading upwards. "You need to reach the surface with him behind you, and--" he smiled, showing too many teeth, one of them chipped "--you must never look at him. Do you understand? Once you cross that white line, you cannot turn back. That's the condition. Take it or leave it."
Melanie looked from him to Adil, so perfect, so whole, if a little transparent around the edges.
"I accept," she said simply.
Standing just before the thick white line painted across the concrete, Melanie turned to Adil, who remained a good ten feet behind her. There was so much she wanted to say, so many things crowding her throat, that she, as always, said nothing but just smiled.
She reached out to take his hand but he didn't offer his in return; he just stood there, limp, vacant, his eyes half-lidded as though in sleep. She crossed the distance to grab his hand but it was like putting her hand through a projection. There was simply nothing to hold and his own ghostly colour superseded hers.
"Adil?" she whispered, and he tilted his face towards her, still void of emotion.
"Melanie?" His voice, though, sounded rich and coloured, a heavy palette of emotions, the brightest tone of which was confusion. "What happened?"
"There was an accident." Her own voice caught, tripping as it climbed from her throat. "But I'm here now and I'm going to take you home."
"Ho-ome." He drew it out, a breath of relief. Or perhaps fear? Melanie didn't ask. Sielu trotted up to them and she crouched down to give the wee dog one last pat and scratch behind the ears.
"Thank you," she said, softly, stroking under his chin. He wagged his tail and barked, jumping up to try and lick her face. She laughed, and straightened up as the woman approached. Her smile faded.
She came towards the pair with a track-suit jacket thrown over her shoulders and she lifted her hand to shake Melanie's.
Melanie did so, surprised to find something in the woman's hand, along with an expression of warning in her eyes.
"He means it," the woman said, her voice low and anxious. "About the rules. There's no skipping, no loopholes. Walk up the ramp with your eyes closed if you have to, but don't look back." She pulled away, and in a louder voice said: "Thank you. For being kind to my dogs." She picked up a wriggling Sielu. "Goodbye, and good luck. I hope we don't see each other again too soon."
Once she departed, Melanie sneaked a look at the object: a small key-chain flashlight, the kind given away at tradeshows. Black, with a small bronze--yes, a small bronze helmet-and-dog crest. She stowed it away in her trusty Loblaws tote.
The ramp was not too steeply angled, nor twisting and the width for two cars to pass, either side of the bisecting yellow line, but as they climbed, floor by floor, she saw no vehicles of any kind. Only storey after basement level of nodding, rustling five-fingered plants and flickering overhead lights.
"How big is this place?" she murmured, meaning it rhetorically but Adil heard her.
"I don't know. I don't know how long I've been here, but I've never seen the end." A tremor in his voice. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands gripping the tote around the handles, one arm crossing over her chest as though hugging herself.
"It'll be okay, Addy," she said, doing her best to keep her own voice level. "We'll be out of here soon."
The walking seemed indeterminable. She had lost count, now, of the levels. She definitely had not come down this far by ladder, and she didn't recall the subway tracks sloping, so trying to mentally place herself was bewildering and hurt her brain almost as much as her feet ached. Unlike a regular parking garage there were no numbers or signposts to mark their journey.
Just the yellow line curving around, and around.
She tried to pass the time by talking, but Adil remained monosyllabic, and seemed to have huge gaps in his recollections. She hoped it wasn't permanent, and wondered what happened to a person down here that they could begin to forget things that had once been so important--that had been defining moments in a life well-lived. Well, she would remember, for both of them.
She wished, again, that she could take his hand, realizing what she missed the strongest was sense of touch. What she had thought about, as she lay awake night after night, was the memory of skin. The rough scratchiness under the pads of his fingers when he held her hand, fingers gently stroking hers as they walked along the Danforth. The tip of her nose against the smooth skin of his back, right between his shoulder blades, when she (invariably) snuggled up against him in the morning. The softness after he just showered, still slightly damp and smelling of body wash, when he used to sneak up behind her to startle her with a "wet hug!".
Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, and she walked.
The levels grew wilder, unkempt. Instead of straight, orderly, garden-centre-esque aisles, the plants clustered under the grow-lamps. Some, she could see, lay on the ground, broken, and brown. It had become quieter too, the fans much reduced; she could hear her own breath now, loud in her ears. And that was not all: when she stopped to take a rest and wiggle her aching toes, eyes tightly shut, she realized she could hear him now. His steps weren't slaps against the asphalt, like hers, more like rasps, as though something heavy was being dragged. The noise stopped abruptly.
"Addy?" she called.
"Yeah?"
"Can you walk a few steps back for me, please?"
"Sure, I guess." More rasping sounds. "This okay?"
"That's great." Still with her eyes closed, she straightened up, buoyed with sudden exuberance. He was becoming solid. They would be okay.
With each rasp a note of joy in her ears, Melanie started again, noting that the lights flickered more and more, the pretense of a farm gone. Her eyes felt very wide in the long shadows; the fading light a concern due to the chunks of rubble appearing in her way, some too big to step over.
A deep, cold feeling of dread had simmered as she observed these strewn degradations, so when they did another quarter-turn and found the tunnel blocked completely by a cave-in, she was not exactly surprised.
"Addy, can you stay where you are, please? I don't want to look back by mistake."
"I'll back up." Heavy dragging sounds--his footsteps moving away. She breathed easier and examined the pile of rubble to see if she could make a way through, but the pieces were too big.
Scooping the flashlight from the bottom of her bag, mindful of its tiny size, she clicked it on, needing to keep the button depressed. The resulting beam was surprisingly intense, and she fumbled, nearly dropping it. It switched back off, but not before she saw the side entrance.
When she looked at the wall in the gloom, there was no breach: it was solid concrete, pitted and ragged in places but otherwise unbroken. She turned the flashlight on again, this time steeling her widened pupils against the glare and clamping her fingers down fiercely.
The tunnel was wide, square, with no lighting; as strong as it was, the beam could not illuminate the end. Still, there was little alternative.
Melanie stopped a few meters from the mouth with she realized that she hadn't heard Adil following her. She almost--almost--turned but caught herself. Instead, she called out his name, eyes closed just in case.
"I'm here," he answered, sounding far away and small. "I don't know about this tunnel..."
"It'll be okay."
"We don't know where it leads. You don't know where it goes." It was the longest thing he'd said to her since she'd found him. Accusation and fear coloured his voice with streaks of orange and green; Melanie's eyes scrunched so tightly that flashes of colour sparked through where her field of vision ought to be. "Melanie?"
"Addy?"
"Come back. We'll go back down. Get better directions."
She shook her head; swooshes of blue and red. "We can't. We have to go on."
"You don't know where--"
"I have come too far to turn back now." She opened her eyes to see the watery brightness disappearing into the unknown. Her breath was loud in her ears, competing with the sound of blood rushing. "I don't know. We don't know. But we have to go on, Addy, we have to take that chance."
She couldn't see more than a few paces in front of her. The darkness draped like a poor blindfold; she could only peek down and see her feet, one now and then the other, step by aching step. The air was thick with dust, super-saturated. Scratchy. Desiccated. The walls were smooth brick, long oblongs of gray. Everything was gray against the light, slipping into black.
The ground shook. A low rumble underfoot, overhead, through the walls. She thought recognized the sensation, but it was too sharp, stopping too abruptly. It couldn't be a subway. Could it?
She felt muffled, swaddled and deafened.
"Melanie?" His voice called very faintly, and unsure. "I don't know if I can keep going on."
"It's okay. We're almost there. I can feel it." She didn't know why she said it; she just couldn't bear to hear the tremor in his voice. Soon they'd be aboveground. Home...
The ground shook again, this time with far more force and Melanie staggered, smacking her shoulder against the hard wall. Wincing, she straightened up, rubbing her injury. "Addy?" she called, her voice a croak. "You okay?"
A hesitant: "Yeah. Think so. I... I don't know if we're supposed to be here."
"It'll be okay." She coughed, still rubbing her shoulder. "We just need to keep moving." Step. She was so tired, and fearful of whatever caused the shaking. But all she had to do was keep walking...
A third tremor knocked her to the ground, and the flashlight tumbled to the ground, cracking audibly, before going out, plunging the tunnel into near gloom.
Near gloom.
"Addy?" she cried, her heart beating joyfully against her ribs, her eyes watering in sheer relief. "Can you see that? Daylight up ahead! I can see blue sky! We're there!"
The return silence lay as heavy as the darkness had been. Suddenly she was falling, tumbling, as her elation swiftly collapsed into terror.
"...Adil?"