Page 25 of The Checklist
“I was kidding.” Dylan laughed as they rounded a corner and passed through another set of heavy doors, complete with a brass lion handle from the movies.
“I wasn’t.”
Dylan almost tripped over his confidence. If she hadn’t been a professional high-heeled sprinter, she might have. Mike did not break eye contact with her, self-assurance vibrating off him. She wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment, so she redirected the conversation toward the massive stage at the back of the room. “So this is the theater?”
“Yes. This is the point in the tour where I dazzle you with childhood-development theory and my vast knowledge of experiential learning.”
“By all means. Dazzle away.”Dazzle away?Dylan hoped he developed sudden amnesia and forgot the entire trip to the theater, or at least the part where she stopped forming cohesive thoughts.
“Right.” Mike nodded solemnly. “At Crescent our mission is to provide children with experiences. Not unlike adults, most children learn by doing. By providing kids with more than a nameplate and facts, we give them a chance to act on the knowledge they have gained. Our theater offers children the opportunity to dress up and act out different concepts and professions. Chances to be doctors, astronauts, and scuba divers all in one location.” Mike paused and looked at Dylan a little sheepishly. “This is the part of the tour where I admit to rigging the space so there are guaranteed to be children playing in here for donors to see. Your visit caught me off guard.”
Dylan laughed, feeling less self-conscious now that she had some company in the self-deprecation department. “Impressive. Please explain the mechanics of staging playtime. I may need this trick later.”
“Homeschool groups. They usually require a couple of days’ notice, though.” Mike shrugged the sheepish look off, replacing it with the confidence he had worn moments ago. “Continuing on, unlike adult museums, which are largely observational, Crescent subscribes to the experiential-learning model. Take, for example, our waterworks space.” Mike began walking in reverse up the sloped auditorium. “This is where I impress everyone with my ability to walk backward while answering questions.”
“It is impressive. You are out here giving away tour trade secrets. I might steal your job.” Dylan felt her smile surface as her Gunderson-induced panic subsided. Crescent and Mike, the self-narrating tour guide, were just what she needed.
“Honestly, this one comes with years of practice as an undergraduate campus tour guide. I’m not worried about people in the consulting world mastering this skill overnight.”
“Someone’s getting cocky. If you trip, I want you to know I’ll laugh.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Never fell once in over ten years.” After throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Mike twisted around to face the installations as they walked into the next room. Dotting the room were dozens of freestanding structures, all brightly colored and built at elementary-schooler height. Looking to her left, next to a glass case Dylan could make out a massive cartoon drawing of a raindrop explaining how clouds worked. In the case was a tiny ecosystem, miniature clouds dropping even smaller buckets of rain on a little cityscape of Seattle. As Dylan watched, the clouds slowly stopped raining and cleared up. Despite the twenty-five-year age gap, both Dylan and the sticky-handed child watching the display were astonished.
“The clouds will reform in fifteen minutes,” Mike said, noticing her squinting in the direction of the display. Dylan arched an eyebrow in lieu of asking for an explanation. “There is a heating coil under the city that—” Mike broke off midsentence, moving from Dylan’s side and making a beeline for one of the installations.
“Oh, buddy, you really don’t want to drink that,” Mike said, scooping a child away from a dripping stalactite in an impressive arch. The rumpled little boy, surprised by his impromptu flight path, clung to Mike’s forearm until his feet were on the ground. He looked up at Mike and gave a small forlorn glance at the stalactite display before toddler-running back to an aggressively bored-looking teenager furiously tapping on his phone.
“What no one tells you in school is that being here is one part museum advocate, one part childcare provider,” Mike said, walking back toward Dylan and readjusting his sleeve, which had been pushed farther up his toned forearm.
“What happens if the kids drink the water? Does an alarm go off?” Dylan asked, remembering the feel of his arm under her hand. Taking her gaze off him, she watched the teen as he took the rumpled boy by the hand, still oblivious to his previous antics.
“No, no alarms. We don’t want to traumatize any of them. And we chlorinate the water to kill germs.” Mike shook his head and smiled before adding, “But last week I caught a kid trying to pee in it, so really, I wouldn’t vouch for its potability.”
“I can kind of see where it looks like a big toilet,” Dylan reasoned. Mike guffawed, throwing her a sideways look. “What? I know I shouldn’t say that given my parents’ profession, but if we are being honest here,” she added with a sharp gesture of her free hand, “you can’t tell me that doesn’t look a little like a toilet.”
The idea of peeing in public was something Dylan usually found mortifying, but here she was giggling like bodily functions were adorable. She blamed Mike for this.
“I feel like his mother would have made the same excuse if she wasn’t busy being horrified.”
Hanging a hard right at a set of heavy doors markedEMPLOYEESONLY, Mike started down an empty hall. Without the brightly colored lights, the marble floors gave off a distinctly less welcoming, more financial-institution vibe.
“This closed section leads to the sensory space,” Mike said as they continued down the corridor, the sound of Dylan’s heels bouncing off the bare walls. She stopped abruptly as Mike plunged into the massive black hole that appeared at the end of another right turn.
“Um ...,” Dylan called into the darkness. Her pulse quickened as the formerly friendly children’s museum turned into the beginning stages of a horror movie. The sound of Mike shuffling around in the dark didn’t do much for Dylan’s courage level.
“I’m looking for the light. I thought I left it ... on ...”
Taking three cautious steps into the blackness, she found herself groping around her purse for her pepper spray. Maybe Neale was right. Maybe the Robinsons were charming ax murderers after all.
“Got it!” Mike yelled, filling the room with the Rapturesque white fluorescent lighting often used for nighttime construction projects. Blinking, Dylan quickly stashed her pepper spray—and her humiliation—back in her purse, vowing to stop listening to Neale.
Unfortunately, the lighting did little to help the horror story appeal of the space. The walls might have once been cream but had slowly faded to a depressing shade of grimy beige. Large pieces of murky clear plastic hung over what Dylan assumed were windows, the massive, earthy, ornate wooden frames barely visible under the dust and bits of plaster.
“What was this place?”
“It’s labeled ‘grand room’ on the floor plans. Although I’m not sure what a grand room is, honestly.”
“Huh.” Dylan felt gravel and loose chunks of whatever covered the floor beneath her heels and tried not to wrinkle her nose. Perhaps Mike saw the potential for a sensory room, but all she saw was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Nicolas would have a field day suing this place.
