Page 155 of Switch!
I have no idea how any of it works. This is the weirdest temp assignment I’ve ever had.
Okay, no need to panic. We allotted extra time for me to deal with anything unexpected. I make the leap back to Roscoe, who is leaning against the counter with a flirtatious smile. His thoughts confirm that the detention center is short-staffed, which might aid our escape. That won’t matter if everything can be traced back to Jesse. I’ll have to find someone who understands the computer systems better. For now, I allow my host to remain in control.
“Turnover this year has been ridiculous,” Roscoe is saying. “You should apply here, make it permanent.”
“How much do they pay full-timers?” Carla asks. “My best friend makes more flipping burgers.”
“Entry level isn’t bad,” Roscoe replies. “Back when I first started, I was earning—”
The conversation goes on, but none of the information is useful to me. I become interested again when Roscoe is buzzed through to the high security area. Past the hallway I’m familiar with, he chooses a different door than the one I was escorted through during visiting hours. This leads to the habitat area—an open space split between two levels. I’m reminded of the exterior of the motel where we’re staying. Rows of doors line two of the four walls, each leading to a cell. Those I can see into are empty. That’s normal at this time of day, Roscoe’s memories inform me.
On the ground floor are more of the weird octopus tables. A handful of young guys are hanging around, but I don’t see Caleb. My host stops to tease them about playing poker. That’s allowed, but only if they don’t gamble. They are anyway, using coded terms they think Roscoe doesn’t understand. He couldn’t care less that they use candy bars and smuggled cigarettes as currency, as long as they stay out of trouble.
After giving them a good-natured ribbing, Roscoe leaves through a door on the left, which leads to the recreation area. The name sounds more enticing than the reality, which consists of two worn couches and a few plastic chairs clustered around a small television. Caleb is sitting off to the side, his attention never remaining on the screen for long. He keeps checking the clock and eyeing the other inmates warily. He’s lucky to be out at all. Usually when there’s a fight, like yesterday, everyone involved is locked in their rooms or sent to solitary. Roscoe wasn’t there when it all went down, but the guards apparently found two guys holding Travis’s arms while a third roughed him up. Nothing too serious. Just enough to cause pain without leaving evidence. According to Roscoe, Travis doesn’t get along with anyone here, including most of the staff, due to his bad attitude.
No surprise there. This is Caleb we’re talking about. He was never very civil, even when free and on top of the food chain. I haven’t forgotten how he treated me. I’ve had doubts about helping him, but this is more about absolving my own guilt. I have to live with my actions, which will be impossible if he’s still locked up and being assaulted years from now. As far as I’m concerned, he’s suffered enough.
There are too many witnesses around for me to speak with him. I need privacy so I can tell him our plan. I let Roscoe go about his business, taking a renewed interest when he enters a staff-only area and I notice a scrawny guard seated at a desktop. He’s clicking away, like he’s busy working, but when I jump over to him, I discover that he’s playing solitaire and only accesses the database to log hourly updates. I stay with him long enough to witness this process, but the system he uses doesn’t reference a visitor log anywhere.
I switch back to Roscoe when I see him next, and just in time, because when we reenter the recreation area, Caleb rises and leaves the room. I follow and watch him go inside his dorm. I wait near it when I hear him peeing. When he comes back out again…
“Caleb.”
He stops and turns to face me, expression guarded. “Travis.”
Like yesterday, he’s smart enough to phrase it like he’s correcting me, when it’s really a question.
I nod in response. “Be ready after lockdown.”
“We’re leaving?” he whispers.
I nod again, but in a louder voice I say, “I’m going home after my shift. You’re stuck here. Be in your room before lights out, understand? I don’t want any more trouble out of you like yesterday.”
“Fine,” Caleb replies, but he’s smiling.
I never did have a good poker face. I let Roscoe return to work, which mostly involves keeping an eye on everyone, breaking up arguments before they get too heated and teasing the inmates he’s particularly fond of. Another hour passes. I should have warned Caleb that our plan might not happen at all. Each time Roscoe visits the office to fill out his reports, Carla is sitting at the computer I need access to.
“I can keep an eye on the front door if you need a break,” I have Roscoe offer, but she merely shakes her head and resumes messing with her phone. I figure she’ll have to use the restroom eventually, but I can’t have him stand there waiting for it to happen. He returns to work, and I feel increasingly deflated.
Fifteen minutes until lights out. I’m starting to full-on panic, especially when Roscoe leaves to take his dinner break. On his way to the entrance, he notices that an old man with bushy eyebrows is sitting behind the window instead of Carla.
“Hey, Jim,” Roscoe says, not surprised by the change of face. “I’ll see you in thirty.”
Finally! The changing of the guard. Some of them anyway. Roscoe still has another four hours to go. I switch to Jim’s body, and once Roscoe has been buzzed through the entrance, I turn my attention to the computer screen. The same hourly reporting program is there, but now I’m certain it has nothing to do with logging visitors. When I check the tabs to see what other programs are open, I nearly laugh. Microsoft Excel. I was picturing a complex database that would require specialized knowledge to manipulate. The spreadsheet that’s currently open couldn’t be simpler. Each column contains basic information like the date, time of arrival, and name of each visitor along with a few pieces of vital information taken from their IDs. I scroll up through the list, noticing that it started this morning. A quick search reveals a directory of spreadsheets, one for each day. I open the correct one, locate Jesse’s name, and all I have to do is highlight that row and hit the delete key.
Done! Although to be on the safe side, I should probably kill the body I’m in so he can’t tell anyone what he’s seen. Ha ha! I won’t of course, but I am worried about how much of this he’ll remember. Until my hosts become aware that I’m with them, their minds tend to rewrite events so they make sense. I try to provide an excuse for Jim to latch on to—a half truth. Yes, he deleted an entry, but it wasn’t for a visitor. After coming up with a story, I have him think about it a few times, and when Roscoe returns from his break, I even have him say it aloud.
“I was checking the logs from the past few days,” Jim says. “They had you coming in from your break when you hadn’t left yet. Duplicate entry, I guess. Unless you have a doppelganger.”
“I wish,” Roscoe says. “He’d be here now working while the real me was at home. Oh well. Time to put the kids to bed.”
“Be sure to read them a story first,” Jim quips.
Hilarious. I make the leap back to Roscoe and remain passive. Everyone is sent to their dorms. Roscoe checks their names off a list before shutting and locking each door. The lights in the habitat area are turned down. This is the easy part of his shift. Aside from checking the rooms every hour, all he has to do is hang around, file reports, and respond to emergencies that are rarely serious.
Roscoe spends this time watching YouTube videos on his phone. Video game playthroughs mostly. I never understood the appeal. I’d be bored out of my mind if I wasn’t so damn nervous. The next time Roscoe makes his rounds, I’m pulling the trigger.
The moment comes all too soon. We check each narrow window to be sure a blanketed lump is resting on the flat stainless-steel bunks. The sleeping arrangements don’t look very comfortable, even with the thin mattresses. The toilet is made from the same metal, a sink built into the top of the tank, which means brushing your teeth or washing your face in the same spot that you pee. I can’t wait to get Caleb out of here. When we finally reach his door, I take over again. Looking through the window, I pretend to be concerned. Not that anyone is watching me when I glance over my shoulder, but therearecameras in the corners of the room, and I don’t want Roscoe to get in trouble for what I’m about to do.
