We took turns pushing back the door. Some were thinking of plans. Others were stacking furniture closer to us. A final group was quickly trying to eat. Phoebe was in the planning group. She tried convincing others that maybe if we could pin them down somehow, we could convince the invaders to snap out of it. Something, anything. Maybe they were the police. Maybe one of them was their parents. I had door duty, and I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. Surely, any of our calls would've been answered, right? But those on the outside didn't care. They just wanted in. No matter how much we boarded the entrance, no matter how many times we told them to get out, they tried getting into our space.

The planners had a few running parts to their plan. One: we had the heavy furniture to serve either as walls or as something to use against the outsiders. Two: we had a few backpacks lined along the other exits to run if the situation got rough. Three: we were given various code words for different scenarios. Four: although we'd tried Phoebe's plan first, we gave each other the parameters of what it'd take for us to either fight back or run. No one should be unaccounted for. Until everyone was done eating, the plan was on hold.

I offered to eat last. By the time I was on food shift, Phoebe and a few others were on the door shift. For me, they left some fruit, bacon, and milk. I said my thanks and dug in. I personally couldn't bring myself to speak, although the rest in my group interacted with each other. How could they be so casual at a time like this? I felt like it was my duty to be quick and efficient. Sure- maybe the system we've worked out has been effective so far, but my life is in their hands. I should be grateful.

We huddled together. Phoebe was the last to let go of the door. Some were ready to knock over dressers and drawers, and others had pots and pans to throw.

"Please - just let us know why you're here! We'll give you anything, just try and work with us!" Phoebe exclaimed.

With three blinks,

The door flew open,

Phoebe was knocked to the ground,

Then, the Phoebe I had met was gone.

My vision got blurry, and I ran away. It didn't help how dark it was. I knocked on metal pipes left and right in a hurry. There were others, not many, but enough to hear the passageway rattle and clang. No one talked. I almost wondered if we'd see each other again. Maybe it's a bit early to say, but I felt like the caboose of a train hastily coupled together. I was loose, I was late and once undone, I would be abandoned. And then what? Should I be hopeful? Am I to fool myself into thinking I'll see them, friends, again? I don't see what the key was that would have locked me in with the others. I'm a circumstance. If I don't grab at them now, I'll lose them forever. The boy who shared his bunk with me. The kids who shared their hobbies with me. I'll lose them unless I fight to keep them.

Phoebe went on and on before how we could find friends all over the place, but where were they beyond this hideout? Was I not looking hard enough? If they did exist, were they inviting, or were they in their own bubble? How replaceable are these friends, really? Will I find those similar to them? Will I find a group with a leader like Phoebe? Can I trust that the light at the end of this tunnel will be a soft, comforting one or something harsher, something worse than that which I ran from?

I try to call out to one of the boys. No response, only labored breathing. I guess it's already over with them. I was promised we'd stay friends. Phoebe promised me. She promised not only our group would stay together, find more friends, but also she'd be a strong leader.

I try to call out again. I believe I was told to stop. What friends were they, really? I was promised I'd have a space of my own. I was promised I could help them. She promised me I could help them achieve their goal. Where is that goal now?

I couldn't help it- I began to claw out in front of me, despite not knowing where. I thought I briefly caught onto one of the boys' shirts. Maybe it was the heavy air. As I ran, I found it hard to tell how many of us ran together. In some sense, I felt I made enough noise to be like a bunch of people in one. Will there be anyone left by the end of this tunnel? Will I escape, my landscape improved?

Land. Light. Mid-day sun. The smell of the salting concrete drying up from the day. Running water. And- as I check my surroundings, I see no one but myself. I see not a single friend at all.

…

While it would be nice to sit by the river, the bitter smell, the loiterers huddled around a trash can merely a few feet away from me, and the harsh sun prevented my ruminating. Contemplating, or maybe I was waiting to see if any others had made it to my side. As I looked back, no one appeared much less a recognizable friend, from any other exits that might have been nearby. Our plan failed.

If I had to guess, my exit was close to the City's edge? There's a river, there's a bridge, therefore I'm back where I started. Following along rivers leads to civilization. Either re-analyzing the farms or finding another group would be the next best direction for me. Plus, being on the boundary of discovery and exploration gives me the time to find what's more valuable. If only I could see past the taller buildings along the other side of the river, maybe I could make that decision sooner.

Many of those strange people began to follow me. They had burnt edges, bruises, cuts, and somewhat dirty clothing. I walked backward at their pace. Some of them made occasional noise, and others labored to breathe. I almost found it amusing that I had a crowd forming for me. One issue. For a single moment, as I turned my head to catch my surroundings, I took in a nauseating smell. It was oppressive, comparable to, like a rotting lavender perfume. Without my conscious input, it put pressure on my eyes.

I stopped facing them. I wanted to cross the first bridge I came across.

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I'd much rather wish to walk along the river. If not for how bad they smelled, I would have stayed. I felt pain, though. It hurt somehow just to be near them. As the pressure in my head solidified itself into a pulsing knot, it became difficult to concentrate. I tried holding the pressure with my hands. I tried rubbing my temples. Maybe water or food. I wanted it to stop. I want it to stop now.

Bridge. I want to find a bridge. Where is a bridge? Endless river. I want the pain to end. I want this period of time to end. I want to move on.

Everything is painful. The sun glares, making it difficult to keep my eyes open. The road beside the river is uneven while increasingly noticing trash. There is increasingly less bridge nearby. No bridge. Want bridge. I want to pass through this. I want to be done with this.

…

Ishmael's mind became a swirling disaster of simple words, strange self-inflicted logical puzzles, and compulsive rage. He could not function beyond what actions he had been doing at that point. In terms of his thoughts, he was entirely incapacitated, and no thoughts could possibly emanate from him at a certain point. The pain he felt was like one wearing braces for the first time.

Although he was less than a mile away from another bridge, the crowd behind him took all of his attention and brain power. As much as he attempted to trudge through the pain, he wasn't much faster than how much of a crawl the crowd was at. He wished he was. He thought he was. He was not.

Upon approaching the bridge, he looked back, straining his now sore neck. The crowd didn't follow. As he began to cross, he dropped in the middle, sitting a few feet away from the edge. Like his companions, he brought a backpack. He had food. He decided to eat and finally had the time to think. As luck would have it, a cloud came to let him think as well.

…

Food. Rations. Picnic. My backpack's loot…was…a few sandwiches, canned drinks, and soup. Double-take. Soup. Soup? Canned soup, with no can opener. I also double-take…took…taked. I don't know. I checked the crowd of bad-smelling people, in short. No movement. They stopped. As I stared at them, they hardly stared back. Not a single shoe stepped on the bridge. Are they in danger? Actually, am I in danger? I checked all other angles. Nothing. It's just them. The crowd is the only animate set of objects in my vicinity.

So I went back to the backpack. I disassembled whatever the packing person thought was a good idea, and reassembled it in my image. My image, the right image, the image that is made for me. Although, I wouldn't be so bold to say the way I organize myself would be an all around good, or something anyone else would consider 'organized'.

Organized right now consisted of spreading out every noticeable object packed, stuffed, in this backpack. Was any of it thought out? Ask again later. Oh, also, no can opener. Nor is there anything that could light a fire, then sustain it, and cook the soup that is in a can. The first sandwich was an egg salad sandwich - which is, of course, known to last for a very long time and wouldn't spoil nearly instantly under a hot sun beating down on it.

Thankfully, it hadn't gone to waste yet. If anything, something simple and easy to digest might be what re-adjusts me again. Whatever works.

I wonder how it feels to stand in the middle of a crowd. I wonder how others feel when they're in groups. I wonder what would happen if one happened to notice another sitting outside of a crowd. I feel like a slice of fruit sitting out on a plate in the middle of a kitchen. No one is home.

I kept looking up. Every bite I took, I felt like the crowd glanced at me. Moving on felt impossible. I thought- maybe one of my friends was in the crowd. Maybe I just missed them. Whoever I could have reconnected with, I didn't remember their name.

There were dozens, if not hundreds, of subtle cues I missed. For them, what subtleties I missed might be articulable, obvious screaming and howling interactions. Maybe I was the problem. I don't think anyone could or should wonder why I walk alone now. I don't think I deserve to be surrounded by the friends I tried to make. Trying is a word reserved for me, but I doubt a single other person would agree that I tried. I didn't try. If anything, I tried to be hard to work with. I tried to be annoying for all that matters.

With what little I learned so far, I crossed.

There were no farms on the other side, only more City. I'm not along the limits. There are more rivers. This City has more rivers. I sat on the side of the bridge to think. The thought continued in my mind like ripples in a disturbed lake. This City has more rivers.

Maybe I wasted the time I spent with them. Every moment was passive. Everything I did simply accepted what I believed someone else wanted.

One of them reached out to scratch me. No confusion. No misinterpretation. They held a hand high, open palm, and aimed downward at me. Happenstance avoided my injury. My attention collected together, where it was just fragmented. As I stared directly at them, every blemish, vein, cut, and iniquity became apparent to my perceptions. They were beaten up if it wasn't obvious enough.

I had enough survival instincts to respond. Needless to say, when one strike came to me, I ensured another wouldn't follow. I didn't exactly know what to do, so I disengaged, maintaining eye contact for the entire duration.

Maybe I didn't have all the survival instincts I needed. Backing away slowly, what stood out was how sharp their face was. It was as if their cheeks were cut out, leaving the bare necessities behind. Their chin, although otherwise triangular, was a perfectly straight line sticking out. Their face was long. The rest of them- their arms looked nearly amorphous. I could hardly tell where their elbows began and ended. Their center of gravity was focused around their midsection, with twig-like legs. Yet there was something I couldn't tell what; there was some sort of shape that stuck onto their lower section like a barnacle. Not quite as pronounced, but some sort of blobby flesh that appeared like a different shape than their natural body.

No reflection, cognition, or logical conclusion could get me to say anything to them. The image, some sort of mass that I could hardly say is one of my own, that I was presented with could not in a million years of introspection ever make me communicate with it. No one could convince me to make any connection with them, especially seeing as I don't know how I would.

Even calling out to them, nothing could possibly get through the dense layer of flesh between their mind and my words, assuming they even have a brain like mine. They are not like me. My voice even invited them to swipe at me again. They aren't like me. They aren't like me. We aren't anything alike. I have no reason to connect with them. They are animals underneath the flesh they wear. They have a pelt of skin like mine, yet they make no attempt to even imitate what I am. They are nothing like me.

I wanted to engage in violence. I tensed up to be ready for violence. I couldn't do it- even being near them made me nauseous. Them existing anywhere near me was violence against me far greater than any strikes or blows that were traded. No matter how enthusiastic I was to retaliate against them, it didn't feel appropriate. I fled, for real now.