A tin of coffee on the bottom, rightmost side of the rack—if I’m counting each square from left to right, top to bottom, it’s the ninth square. A box of meat on the middle rack all the way to the left: the fourth square. A calendar in the top right corner. The third square. The location of the only items on the rack match the numbers in the equation. My fingers struggle to bend as I grip the pen attached to the clipboard.
The date circled on the calendar, 02-09, minus the delivery date on the box of meat, 03-05, plus the expiration date on the coffee, 11-19. I scribble the math on the bottom of the spreadsheet, then turn to Farrah. She’s in the exact same position on the ground; she doesn’t shiver anymore, and I know it’s not a good sign. They may punish her for cheating if I take her out with me, but there isn’t any other option. I can’t leave her here.
“Get up, Farrah.” I kneel down and stabilize her arm under my shoulder, then grunt as I shift my weight to haul her up. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Tears slip from the corners of my eyes and freeze solid on my cheeks. My breaths come in shallow, wrenching gasps. Farrah moans as I trip-stumble her frozen body toward the door.
This better work.
I take a deep, frigid breath and punch the code. 1-0-2-3. A green light flashes. I sob with relief as I twist the handle. The door slides open, and warm air trickles inside.
We did it.
I did it.
We escaped.
I stabilize her on my shoulder as we tumble out of the room into the plant.
“Oh, thank God!” Lyla rushes up but stops short when she sees Farrah. Her hands come up around her mouth. “What happened?” she asks as the freezer door thumps closed.
“She couldn’t figure out the code,” I explain. “Sh-she got trapped in there.” It’s strange, but now that I’m out of there, I feel the cold more than ever.
“They wouldn’t let her out?” Lyla asks.
I shake my head. “She needs to get warmed up, fast.”
“Here, let me help.” Lyla shoulders Farrah’s weight easily.
“H-H-Hartley?” Farrah stutters. Her first word, her first thought, is of Hartley.
“She’s not here,” Lyla says.
“What do you mean, she’s not here?” I ask.
“She wasn’t here when I got out. I texted her, and she said she got a real friend to pick her up, whatever that means.”
Farrah winces.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I tell her gently. I don’t add, “You can worry about fixing your relationship later,” but the implication is there.
Lyla hauls Farrah toward the door, and we file out of the factory into the humid night air. I’m so relieved to be free I could scream if my lungs weren’t frozen solid. I never want to see Rheem Manufacturing ever again.
“Lyla, give me the keys. I’ll get the car.”
Lyla fishes in her pocket and tosses a set of keys over to me. When I get to the car, I blast the heat and go meet the girls, hopping in the back so Farrah can sit close to the heat vents.
“Tulane is the closest hospital,” I tell Lyla as we pull out of the lot. If there’s any benefit to being constantly sick, it’s knowing immediately which hospital is the closest to any given location.
The hospital. I’d give a kidney for a blanket from their warmer right now, something to ward off this bone-deep cold.
“No.”
I almost don’t hear it.
Farrah clears her throat, then speaks louder. “No hospital. Media will find out.”
I protest, “But, Farrah—”
“I said no hospital.” She crosses her arms miserably over her chest, looking into the blackness outside the window.
It’s a silent drive back to the warehouse on Schilling after that. But when Lyla isn’t looking, Farrah catches my eye in the rearview mirror and mouths, “Thank you.”
School today was every bit as bad as I could have imagined. Between Ethan parading the halls with Savannah, Hartley refusing to respond to our texts, and the cold lingering in my bones, it felt like a miracle when the final bell rang.
And now I’m standing with a recovered Farrah inside a pair of double doors, and before us is an actual department store. Racks and racks of designer clothing stretch along the walls, save for the entire wall reserved for shoes of every single style and color. Not to mention that there’s a couch. In her closet. And an ornately carved dresser with a jewel-encrusted mirror and a vase of fresh flowers on top of it. Her closet is nicer than my entire house.
“Whoa,” I breathe, stepping inside.
“Dresses are over there.” She gestures to a long rack. “I’m wearing the gold mermaid one. Everything else is up for grabs.” She plops onto the couch and crosses her legs, pulling a fashion magazine into her lap. At my hesitation she adds, “Seriously. Try on whatever you like. Most of this stuff won’t get worn, so it’d be good if I could get at least one use out of it.”