Page 79 of The Order of Disorder
Maze leads us upstairs to my room.
“Clock’s ticking, girls,” he says, holding the door open.
Rox guides me in with a light touch at my back.
The room feels like home. The bed in the same awkward corner, too close to the door, underneath the camera’s blind spot. The fan on the shelf is off for once, blades still. A stack of Wyatt’s t-shirts sits on the crate he used as a nightstand, folded too neatly to be mine. One of my bras hangs from the bed frame, forgotten. The same chipped mug sits on the windowsill where we left it.
But none of that’s for me today.
Rox goes straight for something new: two cardboard boxes in the middle of the room,“Clothes”scrawled across the side in Sharpie.
She pops one open and starts digging. “Jesus,” she mutters, “did they just grab everything from the lost and found?”
Then she holds something up. A bra with the screaming skull printed across the cups.
“No,” I say flatly.
“Girl.” She raises a brow. “He was specific, okay? Like, verbatim specific. Sexy, cleaned up, pit-ready. I don’t make the rules.”
She says it like we’re picking outfits for a club night. Like this is a favor. Like she’s helping.
“If you don’t wanna go back in the kennel,” she adds gently, “you should probably just do what he says. I mean, you’re out. Let’s keep it that way, right?”
She doesn’t understand. Not really. But her tone is soft, her concern real enough to almost believe.
I nod slowly. I don’t want to wear it, but I don’t want the cage more.
Rox smiles like we’ve solved something and hands me some more scraps, then we step back into the hallway and head toward the bathroom. Maze is still there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed. He watches us without speaking as we pass him, gives me a nod and a small smile.
The bathroom is two stalls, a pair of urinals, a cracked sink, and a shower in the back, curtain barely hanging, galvanized pipe exposed like a half-finished job. The tile is cold under my feet.
Rox flicks the lock behind us.
I peel off my clothes without shame. The shirt feels coated with sweat and grime; the jeans sag around my hips. The pill is starting to hit full force now. Everything feels a little too far away. Like I’m watching someone else move.
I step under the spray. It’s lukewarm and weak. The water runs over my skin and leaves trails of grit behind. I close my eyes and let it rinse me, arms limp at my sides.
A second later the shower curtain rustles and Rox steps in behind me, completely naked, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don’t say anything and neither does she.
She reaches for the soap, lathers it between her palms until they’re slick, then starts on my shoulders. Her hands move in soft circles, the touch is gentle. Pleasant. She’s good at it—efficient, but not rushed. Her fingers glide down my arms, across my back, down my sides. She rinses, then starts again, working lower each time.
I give in to it, letting myself be washed like a child—or more accurately, a corpse. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could do it myself.
She slides one hand across my stomach, the other drifting between my legs, cupping, rubbing, spreading the soap. She circles my clit with her fingertip, as if waiting for something to shift, and I don’t react. I don’t feel anything. Then both hands move upward, over my hips, across my belly, up to my breasts. She lathers there, too, gently, but with purpose.
Still, I don’t move or respond in any way, and I can feel the way she pauses. The silence thickens. Her hands linger another moment, then fall away. She rinses what’s left of the soap from my skin without a word.
I close my eyes again, but there’s nothing behind them. I feel the warmth of her body, the water, the pressure of her hands, but not me. Not really. The drugs are too thick. Or maybe I am.
Eventually she shuts off the water and steps out first, steam rising around her. She grabs a towel from the hook and hands it to me.
I take it and wrap it tight around my body, tucking the edge beneath my arm. The fabric is scratchy and thin, but comforting nonetheless.
“Forgot the makeup bag,” says Rox, quickly throwing on her own clothes. “Back in a sec.”
She slips out and I move slowly toward the sink. There’s a supply closet on the right where I’ve always stashed my toothbrush—saves me from hauling it back and forth from the room. I tug the door open, knock a spray bottle off the shelf, and crouch to grab it. Voices catch me by surprise.
The closet backs onto the tech room—Silas’s domain. It’s a room full of servers, wiring, and computer terminals that only Silas and his handpicked crew of tech nerds have access to.Through a floor vent inside the closet, I can hear Silas speaking, although he’s speaking low, so he’s hard to understand at first.
