On the tenth day, they unlocked the window—but outside, security was fixing the electric fence that had finally been dislodged by the mud pool. It had doubled in size under the cover of the ash cloud. I sketched as I waited on my bed, like I had been doing all week, but the feathers and beaks of the birds under my pen kept smudging when I peered up. Questions bubbled in my mind like the mud pool; questions that no one in Block B would give an honest answer too. But even that was secondary to the urge to hear something, anything, from Kali. Her aeroplanes flew free of the regulations that controlled my life. Each day with less serum and no messages increased the longing to have more than just another aeroplane.

Security left at sunset. I shoved my window up, and something yanked the aeroplane from between my fingers before I had even held it out. It struggled in the southeasterlies still galing, tearing a crisp wing, then vanished into the depths of Kali’s room. As always, there was no sign of her.

It took far too long for a reply to such a simple question. I could have written her essays, told her how much I missed hearing from her, or asked her opinion on Phoenix—but the options were overwhelming, and I’d scribbled out the first thing I thought of.

What do you look like?

Why does that matter to you?

I blinked down at the reused aeroplane, creased half from the wind, and half from Kali’s careless handling.

I just never see you at the window. And it’s hard to imagine sitting next to you when you’ve got an empty face in my head.

The words were still visible through the harsh lines I had forced over them. I made a new aeroplane.

It doesn’t matter. I just never see you at the window and wondered. Forget it. Did you have serum shortages too?

The next aeroplane had a drawing. It was little more than a stick figure, but I drank it all in. Short dark hair. Tall, compared to the other mini stick figures drawn around it. Wearing the same uniform as me—but on the pocket was a number. 4001.

They don’t use serum on most of us in Block A. It conflicts with some of the procedures. But we did have a shortage of fresh fruit and vegetables, which was a disaster. Kumara and chicken ALL week.

The corners of my lips tugged up and I touched the ink of stick figure Kali’s face. I’d imagined new conversations every night as I drifted between waking thoughts and dreams, but none of it came close to Kali’s real voice. What would it sound like if she spoke to me in person, not separated by bars and fences and windows?

“5031 Macdonald, report.”

My pen splattered, ink spraying onto my uniform and sheets as the loudspeaker blared. I scribbled 5031 over the half-complete drawing and shoved it between the bars. When I turned, the guards were already waiting by my door.