Every chair is claimed. Almost every square foot of the floor too. These people look like they’re camping out in this room. How long have they been here?
No way am I getting off. Even if the tram is creepy, it’s a whole lot better than that place. The white cat is up now. She walks on stiff, uncertain legs.
The cat’s weird. I don’t know why she was in that perfect house with me. She was the only part that didn’t totally make sense. She’s a white cat with a dark side, I swear it. Now I wish she’d go away.
I stare out at the packed room as numbers are called over the loudspeaker. “Five-eight-two-two-two-one dash four-five-seven-six-seven-eight-A,” the mechanized voice announces. But no person looks at his or her number. No one even listens to the numbers being called. They continue talking as if the numbers don’t mean anything. Nothing at all.
If only this tram would move so I can book it back to the amphitheater and have a do-over of this lame day.
“Final stop. All passengers must disembark and take a ticket from the dispenser located on the rear wall.” The mechanical voice is closer now—it’s coming through the speaker inside the tram. My scalp begins to itch, my head throbs.
“Final stop. All passengers please disembark,” the voice repeats.
Mom. I need my mom. Whatever is happening here is beyond what Maddy can handle. I dig in my pocket for my cell and push the on switch, wishing so, so hard that it would connect. Mom could tell me how to get out of here. She would know what to do, but the stupid cell won’t turn on.
The tram motor gears up into its about-to-move hum. I sink back into the cushion, breathing out a tiny sigh of relief. But when my back makes contact with the sleek blue cushion, a burst of turbulent air sends me flying head over heels. I grab the seat, the handle, the glass, but the air system like a mini tornado carries me and the hissing, scratching cat out the tram door and into the crowded room.
The doors of the tram slide shut and the tram glides forward.
I watch from the glass-paneled room, a ticket I don’t remember taking in my hand. The tram gains speed quickly. I watch until the last car speeds by in a blue blur.
CHAPTER 25
TUNNEL DOGS
I try my best to hurry Mouse along. We lost a half hour in the lockers. We can’t afford to make a mistake like that again. We don’t have time to take a wrong turn either. So far there has only been one direction, but up ahead the paths diverge in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. This worries me. Plus, before you even get there, you must first pass through a door made entirely of glass.
I try the handle. Locked, of course.
It’s Mouse who sees the sign. Ticketed Passengers Only Beyond This Point.
“Do you still have your boarding pass?” I ask.
Mouse digs in her pocket with her good hand and fishes out her boarding stub. I find mine and together we locate the bar code reader. The red light scans the tickets and the door slides open.
On the other side, Mouse begins looking for signs to tell us which way to go, when a dog howls in the distance.
“That way!” Mouse shouts. “That’s them . . . the tunnel dogs!”
It’s possible there are dogs in each direction. But I can’t stop Mouse now. She is half running down the center path.
And then the tunnel makes a sharp right and a solid corrugated aluminum door appears, also locked. More dogs are howling now, just beyond the door.
I smell dogs and straw and kibble and wet fur. It smells like Henry! Mouse is jumping up and down, holding her arm steady. All we have to do is open the door.
I kneel down, running my hand along the locked handle. Is there a key pad? A bar code reader? A fingerprint access? Could we jimmy the lock?
Mouse studies the corrugated door and the sleek surrounding space looking for signs.
But there are no signs; there is nothing but a small insignia of the company that manufactured the door.
“What’s it say?” I ask.
“Franklin Doors,” Mouse answers.
“I never heard of ’em,” I mutter. “But then again, I don’t know the names of any companies that make doors.”
“Franklin,” Mouse repeats. “Do you know anyone named Franklin, Finn?”
“There’s Benjamin Franklin. And a turtle named Franklin in a book. And a president named Franklin,” I say.
“A famous president?”
“All presidents are famous, Mouse,” I tell her as she leans against the door and wiggles the fingers of her good hand into her shoe.
“No, Finn. Only the rich ones are famous. The ones they put on money,” Mouse insists.
“The money presidents aren’t rich, they’re just extra-famous,” I tell her as she hands me a dime.