2. The Incident
On the third try the car starts again and I make my way up the mountain. The winding road seems endless. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as I navigate around potholes that could swallow half my tire. The car protests every time, the engine whining like it's personally offended.
Sweat trickles down my back as the sun beats through the windshield. The AC gave up years ago, so I open the window, but the humid mountain air isn't better. My light summer dress is clinging to my body, dark patches forming under my arms and between my shoulder blades.
When the town finally appears below—a cluster of buildings nestled in the valley—I could almost cry with relief.
I glance at the clock on my dashboard. I have exactly 5 minutes left, and decide better to be stinky and sweaty than losing a job I don't even have yet.
At least I made it alive, which feels like an accomplishment given the state of my car and this road.
When I park my car and look at the gray control center, I am immediately reminded of my childhood memories.
Sometimes on the weekends we had to come to the control center in our town; most of the time we would stand in front of the building with the big red sign that read "Communication is key" while a communicator told us how to behave when we meet a wolf, what to say and what not to do—run, and if we had any weapons at hand, how to harm them enough to get away.
Communication is key really wasn't the real motto at that time, though to be honest it still isn't most of the time.
I remember how my mother would always say to me afterwards, "Don't listen to them, they haven't really understood their job.
The job's title is Communicator, so why wouldn't you communicate when you meet a wolf?
Why would you need to harm if you can talk?
" She said it with such confidence I always believed her.
As a child I was still confused about the whole concept.
Mainly because I still had no idea what communication is, but one day after an especially violent lecture from the communicator, she said "You know what, Communication is really listening.
Communication is when you really listen to the person's concerns.
For example, I want you to go to bed in one hour, but what am I really saying? "
"I don't know."
"Think,k?z?m."
"Mhmm, maybe because you don't want me to watch so much?"
"Yes, but why?"
"I don't know."
"It's because I don't want you to be tired the next morning. I want to make sure your body is rested and that you feel good when you wake up. It's not because I want to annoy you."
"Oh. Why don't you tell me that?"
"I do, but you stop listening when I say yes. You nod with your head, agreeing to everything but not really listening to what I am saying, so you can run up as fast as you can and start watching, isn't that right?"
I nodded, guilty.
"So if you really want to know what communication is, it's when you listen, and sometimes it's when you listen so good, you can actually hear the words the person is not speaking, like 'I am worried you will be tired' or 'I am scared, that's why I lied' or 'I might sound angry but I am actually insecure'. .."
2 minutes left.
I open the car door and make my way up the steps to the building. There are two guards in full uniform standing at the entrance, looking me up and down while I climb the steps.
"Miss Sezim?" one asks when I reach the door.
"Alara, please." He just raises his eyebrows and then smirks at the other guy while opening the door.
"Alara, beautiful name. Where do you come from?" Heard that one before. But just when I try to repeat my standard answer to the question, someone pushes against me from behind, basically tackling me to the side while running.
"Hey, you can't just run in here, stop!" the guard screams, and they both immediately start to follow the person.
I look around. There are no other guards anywhere, and when I enter the building, it's quiet.
The secretary desk is empty and there are no people.
Other than the two guards chasing the—I think young boy—up the stairs.
"Wait, where do you think you're going?"
"Help me, I need help!" he screams while still running, but they run so far into the building the voices are getting quieter.
I stand there for a moment, not sure what to do, when I hear a voice call out.
"Miss Sezim."
I turn around to see a man walking toward me. His eyes look me up and down. That must be John.
"You're late," he says, checking his watch with a big show. His eyes stay on my sweat-stained dress that's stuck to my body. "And this isn't a summer camp, Miss Sezim. Couldn't you find something more... professional to wear? This is a serious workplace"
"I'm exactly on time," I counter, pointing to the clock on the wall. "Two o'clock, as requested."
"Barely," he scoffs.
Before I can say anything else, the guards return with the boy. He looks maybe sixteen, skinny and scared, breathing hard as they drag him toward us.
"Sir," one of the guards says to John, "this kid says he needs to speak with you. Says it's urgent."
John crosses his arms. "What? We're in the middle of something."
The boy looks at John, then at me, then back at John. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. He's shaking.
"Speak up!" John snaps. "We don't have all day."
The boy just stares, frozen in fear.
I take a step toward him. "Maybe I could—"
"Stay out of this," John cuts me off. "You haven't even started yet."
I ignore him and move closer to the boy. "Hey, it's okay. Just take a breath."
John sighs loudly. "Miss Sezim, this is not—"
"My name is Alara," I say to the boy, keeping my voice gentle. "What's yours?"
The boy looks at me, surprised that someone is being nice. "T-Tyler," he manages.
"Tyler," I repeat with a nod. "Can you tell me what happened?"
I can feel John's annoyance behind me, but he doesn't interrupt again. I think he's curious now.
"Me and Ivan were just up in the north," Tyler begins, his voice getting steadier. "We weren't doing nothing bad, I swear. But then... Ivan had his dad's gun and..." His voice breaks.
The room goes quiet. I look back at John, whose face has changed.
"And what, Tyler? It's okay, you can tell me."
"One of them wolves is dead."
The words hit like a physical blow. John's face drains of all color. One of the guards actually stumbles backward, catching himself against the wall. A dead wolf. This could be the breaking of a fragile peace. This could mean...
"WHAT?"-John interrupts my thoughts.
Before I can react, he lunges forward and grabs the boy by his neck, fingers digging into his skin. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE?" he screams, spit flying from his mouth, eyes wild with panic. "THEY'LL WILL COME AFTER US AND WE HAVE NO BACKUP PREPARED"
I try to push him away from the terrified boy. "Stop it! Let him go!" But John is twice my size and fueled by terror.
"Could you please help?" I shout at the guards who are still standing there in shock.
A dead wolf hasn't happened in a long time, and a dead wolf means.
.. annihilation. A wholesale bloodbath that could wipe out the entire town before reinforcements could arrive.
This wont be fair fight if we don't stop it.
Finally, one of the guards snaps out of his trance and helps me pull John off the boy, who crumples to the floor, gasping.
"Call his aunt," John says, still breathing heavily, his eyes darting frantically to the windows as if expecting an attack at any moment. He grabs my arm so hard it hurts. "There's a room upstairs," he says, pulling me toward the stairs. "With the phone."
"The Phone." The direct line connecting the wolves and humans. It was established a long time ago, although the use varied on the communicators attitude.
I follow John up the stairs and into a small room. The phone sits on a desk, black and old-fashioned. I stare at it, suddenly very nervous. This could go very wrong.
I reach for the receiver, gathering my courage, when suddenly it rings. The sound makes me jump.
I look at John, who raises his eyebrows.
"Well," he says, "what are you waiting for? Pick it up."