23. The artist woke up in his hideaway and could not get back to sleep. He kept thinking about the secret book. No matter how many times he told himself he was being ridiculous and that the book was safe, he kept worrying about it. He got out of bed and did jumping jacks. He drank warm milk, he watched television, he counted his brushes. Nothing worked.
He found himself getting dressed. Why was he getting dressed? He tied his shoes and grabbed his jacket. Where did he think he was going? Oh, he knew where he was going.
He walked outside and looked around. If he was trying to keep a secret, walking around in the middle of the night in Sector 8 was not a good way to do it.
He walked the few blocks to the old factory and sneaked in one of the doors marked by the triangle. It made a rusty creak but he didn’t think that there was anybody near enough to hear it except maybe that crazy old person he’d seen sleeping in a burned-out car half a block back.
He walked through the factory halls and paused to listen. Had he heard something? His mind was playing tricks on him. He would just grab the book and get out of there.
He trotted down the stairs searching for the door. It was darker than when he had been there last as it was night and no rays of light came through to help him find his way.
He still managed to find the door and just as he opened it he heard a sound. It was an unmistakable human sound, that of a voice crying out. It wasn’t his imagination. And so he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it.
What was he going to do? He’d been right to come there. Somehow he had known.
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He found himself getting dressed. Why was he getting dressed? He tied his shoes and grabbed his jacket. Where did he think he was going? Oh, he knew where he was going.
He walked outside and looked around. If he was trying to keep a secret, walking around in the middle of the night in Sector 8 was not a good way to do it.
He walked the few blocks to the old factory and sneaked in one of the doors marked by the triangle. It made a rusty creak but he didn’t think that there was anybody near enough to hear it except maybe that crazy old person he’d seen sleeping in a burned-out car half a block back.
He walked through the factory halls and paused to listen. Had he heard something? His mind was playing tricks on him. He would just grab the book and get out of there.
He trotted down the stairs searching for the door. It was darker than when he had been there last as it was night and no rays of light came through to help him find his way.
He still managed to find the door and just as he opened it he heard a sound. It was an unmistakable human sound, that of a voice crying out. It wasn’t his imagination. And so he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it.
What was he going to do? He’d been right to come there. Somehow he had known.
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