I’M MORE LOST NOW, if that’s even possible. Picking paths at random didn’t work and I’ve abandoned the little optimism I had that I might chance upon the green glow of an exit sign or an overworked intern whom I could pester for directions. I’ve found nothing and no one, save hallways intersecting with yet more hallways, always straight ahead or at ninety-degree angles.
I change tactics. I follow the right-hand wall, trace every dip and turn with my outstretched hand. If I follow this wall it should deposit me at an exit sooner or later. Worst-case scenario, I’ll wind up full circle, right?
But no, there’s a problem with this plan. I’ve been assuming that I’ll find an escape on an exterior wall, but what if this structure sprawls out underground? Perhaps I should be searching for a staircase. And that could be anywhere—even in the centre of the maze.
Plus, every hallway looks identical. I could have already passed my starting point without realizing it. I could be looping back over myself time and time again.
In the quiet of these empty halls, I notice subtle sounds that I’d been overlooking: the soft clink of coins in my pocket, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the ragged breaths escaping my lips. And—there’s something else. Something deeper in the maze. What is that sound? Where is it coming from?
I stop. I hold my breath. I hear nothing but the electric hum of the lights above me. Just my imagination?
I decide to keep moving, but I switch tactics. I pull one of the nickels from my pocket and start scratching numbers into the drywall beside my chosen paths with the edge of the coin: 1 ... 2 ... 3. I walk in the straightest line possible. If no straight path presents itself, I turn right and then straighten my path with a left-hand turn at the next intersection.
But only now do I notice how strangely these branching hallways are dispersed. At times, my path is littered with choice—I’ve barely turned a corner before I’m waltzing down another fork in the road. Other times, I walk for long periods without finding a single branching path.
I still count the minute spinning circles round my watch face. Five. Six. Seven. Have I really been walking this long? Why don’t my legs ache with the effort? Why aren’t I winded?
Now I’m scratching 40 in the drywall. Now 72. Now 119. How long does this building crawl on for? Who would design such a mundane prison?
And then, as I move to mark my 200th intersection, I see it—a number 11 etched beside the corridor on my left.
What the fuck. I’ve been travelling in a straight line. How did I wind up back here? Did I forget to correct a right-hand turn with a left? Did I overcorrect a few too many times? Have I looped back without realizing it?
I stand in the centre of this intersection. I stand for a long time, staring at the writing on the wall.
I come to a decision. I tie my deconstructed mitten to my index finger, clasp one hand to the top of my Stetson so the hat doesn’t fly off, and I start running.
Screw strategy. I choose hallways at random. I smack into walls on my way around corners. I fly by hallways I’d meticulously labelled mere hours ago: 82, 5, 114 ... 202? Wait, did I even make it that far?
I lace the maze with red yarn. I dash pell-mell with utter disregard for the tangled net I’m weaving. I expect to feel a sharp yank as my yarn catches on a wall or gets tangled in itself, but no pull comes. Instead, I trundle through intersection after intersection, trailing my colors—when I spill into a four-way with a red thread stretching from left to right in front of me.
About time my yarn trail came in handy. I cross the red thread and continue down the only hallway I evidently haven’t tried. I break into a run once more ... and then stop.
I’ve found my thread again, stretching between the left-hand corridor and the one straight ahead. I turn right.
But there it is again. A three-way intersection this time, with the thread stretched from hall to hall in front of me. I head left, following the vein of red on the ground.
I must be spinning in tight circles—one mitten certainly didn’t unspool into this much yarn. Yet I stumble across my thread again and again.
And then, as I’m following my thread down a long, straight hallway, I find myself in an intersection criss-crossed with red wool. My lifeline stretches down every corridor. I tug at the crossing threads and find them taut, but no matter how hard I yank it never pulls back on the thread tied to my finger.
I keep walking through hallways daubed in red. The yarn underfoot grows more concentrated. It zigzags away ahead and behind, veers into every new passage I discover. A cobweb of red, like veins flowing down the corridor. They trip me and turn my path treacherous.
At last I stop. I lean against a wall and sink down to the woolly floor. I untie the useless unravelled thread from my finger and let it fall. Now what do I do?