Chapter IX: Caged

That night - and the nights thereafter, we all go to listen to Bartholomew play. People set up board games and card games and other activities while the sun sets and the piano rolls across the green grass as blue turns to amber and amber turns to purple and purple turns to dark. Sometimes, even Randall joins us, but he stays far away from almost everyone, sort of disgusted at them, I imagine. Disgusted in their happiness and their simple peace.

I think - out of all of us - the idea of returning to Zootopia is most strongly on his mind, because that grind will begin afresh. And, somewhere in the back of my mind - having passed through my first week miraculously unscathed, here, the idea is beginning to creep its way into my head once more.

This is the worst sort of false freedom.

But it is the only freedom we are likely to ever get. A lone bright spot in a life full of puddles of darkness.

So, one night, over a cup of freshly made hot chocolate, I lumber my way over to Randall. Not so much to talk to him - his face says everything I need to know about even remotely engaging with him, but I do want someone to be near him. To at least feel a little warmth. I have noticed that most of the other mammals have basically avoided him. Something, I suppose, about how he presents himself making it difficult for others to present themselves in return. The only folks who ever interact with him are the staff. And then, I think, it's only because they have to.

Interestingly, he doesn't chase me away. But he doesn't move to talk, either. Rather, he just sips at something that looks like a concoction. Not alcohol, of course, because the island doesn't have that, but it looks like a syrupy mess of different sodas. They're all blending together and swirling to form a brown goo that probably doesn't taste appealing at all. But he brings the plastic cup to his lips and swills. Taking a long, heavy drink before he considers me at all.

"I thought I told you to go," are the first words he says to me.

"Yes," I reply, "but that was a couple of days ago. I was hoping you'd changed your mind between now and then."

He shakes his head. He has what passes for an almost-grin on his face.

"You're one of those, I guess."

I think I know exactly what he means, but I haven't had too many people who were also drug addicts in my life. Despite everything - the way we were downtrodden, the way things didn't make sense - or maybe because all of that, I have never felt the need to cloud the issue still more by piling drugs on top of everything else. And, while there have been isolated cases like that in my family, my family is rather hard about this kind of thing: you took some drugs? You can dry out in a quiet spot by yourself. Try it again? We'll take you to one of the underground doctors. And you won't see your family until you straighten out. So you'd better straighten out.

I decide to change the topic, since I don't really want to be talking about his addiction. Even though, clearly, that's what he wants to discuss.

"I'm Leo," I tell him, leaving my crossed on the table, wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate. I allow my glasses to get in the way of the wispy steam, letting them cloud so I don't necessarily see the night sky clearly. I just want this moment to be a smear of beautiful colour.

"Randall," he says, gruffly. "Why are you out here, anyway?"

"Because I figured I'd say hi," I offer in return. It's the truth.

"Despite the fact that this..." he says, gesturing to it, grandly, "...doesn't matter. And that in a couple of weeks time, the dream will be over? That you'll be back in your cage and that you and I will never meet again? And never know that we shared this particular FEVER dream?"

And immediately, listening to his voice, I think I kind of understand. At some point in the very distant past, Randall might have tried to be a poet. But poetry demands blood. And getting shocked every time you want to write something because you're feeling it...doesn't sound like a good way to go about things.

"I did try," he says, defiantly - carrying the conversation from the time we first met. "Like you probably did. I thought I could work around the cage. Thought that - though it shackled me, I could be anything I wanted. I would just have to work that much harder. And for a time, I absolutely did that."

It is, of course, absolutely true. I did, indeed try that.

"But in the end, I burned out. I burned out of trying to reach for emotions and then having to draw right back in case I went too far. I burned out of trying to describe that feeling on paper. And then I burned out trying to get people to listen." He confirms everything I thought.

"So now...?" I ask. I didn't want to talk about his addiction, but it's clear that this is the only thing he wants to talk about. Or the only thing that matters to him.

"So now, I just don't feel anything. It's easier that way," he finishes, taking another sip of his soda. And I guess it's an answer.

I don't like it, because it completely concedes that the prey have won. And, to a very real extent, they have, but it is denialism of the worst sort. There is the possibility that things could change. That's what Doctor Jefferson seems to be attempting to work toward.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, but I don't get up. Of the collection of sins Zootopia has piled upon this one poet, I can't decide which is worse: his giving up, or his family giving up, or the fact that he doesn't physically want to be part of this world anymore, so he's constructed a world of his own. A world where there is no pain or fear or sorrow. Just day after day of simulated warm gentleness that's going to destroy him at some point.

He doesn't give an answer in return. It's difficult to tell what he feels, exactly.

Our conversation, such as it is, gets interrupted by the dinner bell. Because it's a nice night out and because we're setting up to say goodbye to Melissa, the staff have decided that we're going to eat outside. I head on over to my little house and collect the package of potato salad I'd bought earlier that day, a particular favourite of mine. There's a lot of milling around as other mammals do the same. Some are carrying steaks. One elephant has a great, big bowl of what looks like most of a tree, while a fox has bought what looks like fish and fries, his paws a little laden with the pair of plates.

As we sit down, Doctor Jefferson counts heads. He tries to make a point of having everyone eat together at the same time. It promotes - as he's told us - unity and a little downtime, but - of course - there's a secondary motive, here. He just wants to make sure that he still has all of his charges.

If there's one island out in the wild that's not on any of the maps, then there might be other unclaimed islands. And while a resourceful predator might not want to go back to Zootopia, they may want to try for one of these other places. So it always makes sense to do a head count.

And, of course, on this one night, there is someone missing.

And I think I know exactly who it is.

Doctor Jefferson counts again. Comes up one short.

I get up and count, too. I don't know all the predators, but I can spot them a mile away. And there's at least one familiar face that's missing. It might mean nothing, of course. Mammals rather do like the beach. Some of them go walking. But it is ominous and there's a little ball of worry beginning to grow in my gut.

It's Melissa. Melissa isn't here.

My walk turns into a jog. The jog turns into a full on run. The run ends at her door when I collide with it, trying to turn the handle when it won't budge. I'm the first one there, and, with a muted whimper, I start trying to bash it down.

But then, Doctor Jefferson is there - his own breath coming out in huffs and pants as he clicks the key into the door and pushes it open.

Melissa's story is right there, in black and white. For everyone to read.

There is a note.

There is a body.

She has hung herself from one of the ceiling fans, the thing still lightly turning from where she had it on. It is clear she didn't want to back out, because the chair she was standing on is kicked back, down on the floor and her feet - one leg shorter than the other by a couple of inches - dangle uselessly as her body sways, lightly.

I hold my bile back for as long as I can, picking up the note and scanning it. Doctor Jefferson is too shell-shocked to stop me, though, really, he probably should. His eyes are staring up, up, up at the tongue - frozen in place and dangling out of a half-closed maw. Her own eyes dark and clouded in death. Seeing things we will never see. Stories she can never tell.

Her handwriting is impossibly neat and there are only a couple of lines.

"I'm sorry," she says. And then something that I can't read - scratched out too many times for me to tell what she'd written next, but under that, "I love you, Doctor Jefferson. I love that you gave me a little bit of freedom for a short while. But I would rather die here - die free than die there and in a cage."

There's a rush of people at the door and, one by one, predator and prey alike are slipping into the room, staring at the sight. Randall is the last one to the door, and his deep, commanding voice cuts over the commotion that's starting to build in the room.

His eyes stay fixed on the slowly swaying corpse as his words spill over us. "She's the only one with sense." And then, he walks away.