OUR INCIDENT ON THE BRIDGE should have been team-building, but I can’t help but watch Willow through slitted eyes as we settle in for sleep on the far side of the bridge. She lies against a wall of the corridor opposite me. She lies beneath my suit jacket, her arms pillowing her head. A small smile dusts her lips as she sleeps.
It’s that smile I mistrust.
This whole thing feels like a wild goose chase—like the world made more sense when it was just weird hallways that looped back on themselves. That I could explain away as a practical joke or the worst funhouse ever ... but this?
Since Willow got here, things have just gone from weird to worse. I don’t even know if this maze has an end, or—if it does—if I will ever see it.
And she knows more than she’s letting on.
The section of the maze we’re in now has traded the last building’s uninspired floral paintings for an equally trite floral-print wallpaper. Blue vines stretch vertically up and down the wall every few inches, with small leaves and flowers budding from them. It was probably a niche look in the ’90s.
But despite the retro façade, behind me, not five metres away, hangs a gaping wound in the side of the building—the monstrous chasm and the rope suspension bridge we crossed. These two worlds should not co-exist.
I still have no memory of how I came to be in this maze, which bothers me. I have plenty of memories of my childhood, being raised by my Grandmother, but the last few months—they’re blank. What was I doing to get here? How did Willow know exactly where to find me?
Every denizen of this maze is lonely.
Behind us, the rope bridge creaks in a breeze I cannot feel, the rapids far below echo their ominous murmur up to where we lie. As we rest, the corridor gradually simmers into a bright, bloody red. I assume the sun must be setting, somewhere out of sight.
I cannot sleep. I pillow my head on my arms, eyes wide open, haunted by suspicions I can’t shake. I keep craning my neck to peer behind me at the creaking bridge, expecting to see some massive figure lurking on the far side, steeling itself to cross.
I’m starting to believe in the Minotaur more emphatically, if only because Willow keeps denying that it exists.
When Willow yawns awake, I haven’t shut my eyes for longer than thirty seconds. She squints at me and asks, “Did you sleep?”
I sit up and nod. I wonder if my eyes are bloodshot and betraying me.
“I have some chips, if you’re hungry.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “Food?” I croak. “Where did you find food?”
“The train platform. Two vending machines, or didn’t you see them?”
More and more secrets. Something fishy. “So when I said I wanted to eat something in the wood, you didn’t think—”
“We had a train to catch. There wasn’t time. But now, you really do look awful—are you sure you’re okay?”
“I would kill for a piece of pork tenderloin,” I say. “Real food. Steamed asparagus with a spoonful of butter melting on it. A mountain of potatoes—real potatoes—in a lake of gravy.”
“I have Lay’s Original.”
I nod and Willow hands me the crinkling bag. I thank her, but she’s lying. I don’t remember any vending machines. And I certainly didn’t see her lugging a bag of potato chips around since we left the train behind.
“We’ll have more choices, up ahead,” she says. I nod, but I’m only half listening, “We’re almost at the woods I mentioned. I’m afraid this leg is always rough.”
“We’re indoors.”
Willow nods. “These are the outskirts.” She runs her hand across the wallpaper we lean against. “You’ll see what I mean.”
“Any chance that this wood is secretly an orchard? Or maybe we’ll find some wild blueberries on the path?”
Willow cocks her head to the side. “If you see any fruit, I wouldn’t be inclined to try it. But, you know, you do you.”
“Are they poisonous?”
“Are you hungry now? You’ve mentioned food a lot.”
“No,” I say, tossing the empty chip bag away. “But eating makes me feel normal in a way that nothing else in this backwards-ass world does.”
Willow sighs and retrieves the trash from the floor. “Well, I don’t know if the fruits are edible. I haven’t tried. But I have broken a thorn from the vines, and I’d suggest you don’t eat them if you can help it.”
“Poison sumac? Or are these—” I narrow my eyes “—your talking trees?”
“What? No. Not really.” Willow stands up and stretches, then holds out a hand with which to hoist me up too. “Is sumac a plant?”
“My Grandmother had some growing in her backyard, once. White flowers, green leaves with wavy edges. The top of the leaf is darker than the bottom. Even the twigs cause pretty severe wounds.”
“No, it’s not sumac.”
Willow begins walking away from the rope bridge. We leave the natural red light behind and fluorescent bulbs take over. Willow runs a finger across the wallpaper as she walks. “I don’t know what this plant is, but its thorns are sharp. It doesn’t have flowers and it doesn’t cause a rash. But it doesn’t like being tampered with.” As I watch, Willow absently lifts her hand to trace the scar on her palm.
“And they grow in this building? Or—mountain pass? Or whatever this part of the labyrinth is? Is it a weed?”
Willow skips her finger over each vine on the wallpaper pattern, like someone skipping cracks in the pavement as they walk. “Let’s just say that you’ve never really met wallflowers before now.”