Once Roy sets off, I fish out an old phone from my pocket, tracing its dusty screen after being unused for so long.

Roy insisted on taking care of all his guests alone, giving me some time to rest. Yet, it's wrong to be resting when my thoughts are so awake. Moreover, when both my friends are dealing with their matters.

Leaning against the cave's uneven surface, I let my thoughts wander like a child in an expedition, though my senses are fixed on the nightly quirks of the rainforest, like the bristling leaves and the faint echoes of an elephant's trumpet.

This worn-out, touch-screen-less phone once belonged to Uncle Oregon, before he forgot to take this to his latest task at Okauri Country. After years of staying hidden in a drawer, Auntie Morgan gave it to me, in case she needs to call me up.

I didn't have anyone else to call besides my parents and Auntie Morgan, and I always met them every day. But I don't have the chance to meet them now, and it's been weeks since my escape from the prison...

Should I give them a call? But what if my number gets tracked by the police, like those in the movies? It might endanger this cave and everyone within, along with Argus and his crew...

I let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping down as well. The chilly wind chews through my outfit, pricking me with little stings. My eyes are beginning to flutter, yet what should I do to silence down my thoughts? They're raging more than ever since the idea's appearance.

The sound of rustling leaves jolts me awake, leading my gaze to the cave's entrance. A hunched figure shambles out, her movements shaky as she uses a hand on the rocky walls to steady herself. "Why are you all alone?" Grand-Mad asks, her curt smile reflecting the moonlight.

"Uh..." I scratch my head; now, where should I start explaining? "Roy left to take care of his visitors... Argus and... anyway, do you know him, Grand-Mad?"

As she lowers herself next to me, I support one of her arms to help her down. "He's a good man that works for the wrong side. Though, who doesn't want money nowadays? Even if we have to get all dirty for it... why not?" She chuckles bitterly, oddly twisting my stomach. "Don't you think so, young Worke?"

For a while, my tongue is stuck inside my mouth. "I don't think so," I say, stuttering some of the words. "I'd rather work as a newspaper courier for the rest of my life."

Grand-Mad's booming cackles are similar to Mr. Julian's, and it makes my heart ache. Did Mr. Jules laugh in the same way? I haven't had any chance to know him well enough, though he had worked with me for several years, and often defended me from the bullies...

"Do you know Argus was once a Lowlife too?" Once her chuckles die down, she looks at me with a gentle smile. "His family chose to be Highlifes, which got him closer to Roy's family and other Dogson officials. Are you sure you won't choose the same path one day?"

I slowly shake my head; the questions within are surely lagging it down.

Smoothing the wrinkled edges of her polka-dot dress, she throws her gaze to the distance, where only trees greet her back. "You're wise enough to do so. Correct me if this old hag is wrong, but you don't seem like the kind to be after these... worldly objects." I raise a brow at her statement, and another cackle rocks her chapped lips. "You know, like money, power..."

"I just want to live better." My answer comes crisply, maybe because I've been waiting for this question for so long. "I just want to make everyone proud."

Grand-Mad clicks her tongue as she shakes her head persistently, her trembling fingers clasped together. "Really? From all the inventions ever made, or all the fine women ever created... you chose that. Sounds too wise, if you ask me. But it confirms my suspicion: how you always live to please others."

Holy boars of Dogson—how can she know that?

"That's why you barely react to the bad things happening to yourself. Like these wounds"—she grabs my arm and inspects the electrocuted elbow closely—"that never stop you from doing something only the healthy ones should do. I can see where you got these quirks: your modesty from your dad, and the selflessness from your mom. With all due respect, young man... they're good to have, but sometimes they can poison yourself."

I jerk up as if a bucket of cold water just slaps me. What did she mean by that?

"I might not be the right person to tell you this, but... think of yourself like a firefly in the middle of flies, Allice—a good thing surrounded by the bad. Now, the two have a similar choice of food: flower nectar. If the flies dominate over all the flowers in the land, the firefly will have no choice but to leave, searching for another field."

It takes me a while to understand her imagery. "So it's like, I'm subtly kicked out?"

"The same thing happens to your reality. Dogson already has the important things in their grasps, such as your parents, your aunt, and the freedom you deserve to have." She coughs out drily as if the words are choking her. "I think... there might be a time that you have no choice but to leave, even if others don't agree with it."

"But why?" I cut in as my heartbeat rises in seconds. "I have my friends here"—I lean back weakly like a boneless doll—"and also some good memories..."

"There might be a time when you should wake up from the good illusion, young man. Sometimes you need to be selfish... before it's too late."

I shiver, either by the chewy wind or the harsh reality her words brought.

The death of her sons must trigger something inside of her. She's no longer a fiery old woman. Like a gutted-out fish, she's like a shell without any soul. My heart cracks up slowly, leaving a sickly feeling on my chest.

"You shouldn't think of it, Grand-Mad." The breeze blows my words away; did she even get to hear them before they faded? "We should try our best, still."

A fresh wave of tears roll down her aging face, and the splinter in my heart grows wider. She didn't cry when she found out about the news, yet the pain must always be there ever since. "Did you even hear yourself? How naive you are, just like your parents? Lots of people warned them about Jorge, but just because he was your dad's childhood friend—"

"Ma, why are you out here?" An irked voice comes from the cave's entrance, the owner being a woman with lopsided glasses and untidy pajamas. Unlike her daily bun, now her blonde hair is loosened, released to her shoulder blades. "You too." Her tone gets sourer as she looks at me, a scowl framing her lips. "As if the cave isn't cold enough..."

"If that's all you can do to comfort her, then do kindly get back in." I keep my tone even and composed, yet it's hard to suppress down the sarcasm.

"I need some fresh air," she grumbles as she sits in quite a distance beside Grand-Mad. Like a fretful kid, she sweeps the surrounding area with a gaze, also with a scowl. Once her eyes land on my unused phone, I shift in discomfort. "What do you need that for?"

I shake my head quietly, pursing my lips to avoid saying things I should keep to myself.

"You're bad at lying. Even in the dark, I still can see through it." She snorts, making me fidget with my fingers. "I've never seen you take that out before. Are you going to call someone?"

"That's not important," I stutter, slipping the words out. "I kind of missed my parents and aunt in prison. This reminds me of them," I lie, still stuttering. When she snorts once more, I shrink further, immediately grabbing the phone from the ground and shoves it down my pocket.

Shaking her head, she mutters, "You would win an award for being the most honest person I've ever known. Here, give me that."

Grand-Mad snaps out of her tearful muse as her gaze leaves the trees, heading back to me. "What have I missed?"

"No." I hide my face behind Grand-Mad's to avoid the snappy woman. "I said it's not important—"

"What if I can help?" At the bullet-speed of her sentence, I quit forming another lie, straining my ears at her whispers. "I know someone contactable amongst the guards—"

Without a second doubt, though heat begins to toast my cheeks at the shame, I fish out the phone from my pocket and gives it to her, while trying to ignore her low chuckles of victory.

Since when did she start caring for others besides herself?

"Who are you calling?" Grand-Mad throws her a sharp look, contradicting the fragile personality she showed before. "Don't try to cause more troubles, we've got quite enough on our plates for now—"

"Clout, there you are," is how Mrs. Sybil replies to the old woman. Or more like replies to the phone. "It's Sybil, from The Office. Look, I want you to stop the automatic tracking of this call." There's a meaningful pause before she wheezes, "Alright, how much does the mayor offer if you obey his orders, hmm? Like, it'll probably be like"—her scoff makes me uneasy—"one-tenth of my offering."

What can she offer—a position in The Office? Or is she corrupting some money and wants to give it to him?

"I'm a Senior Administrator, Clout. I can give you a good recommendation if you ever get bored in prison. Or if there's someone you know that provides supplies and all..."

There, I knew it. Highlifes and politics are truly inseparable.

Her quick hush almost makes me jump out of my skin. "Tell me who do you want to be known as." She puts her hand on the phone as if muffling it, before whispering, "You don't want to use your real name. Clout can be a two-faced clown whenever he wants."

"Whose name should I use then?" Using Miro's name might be dangerous; if Clout betrays us, the authorities might track Miro down. Is there a person they can't reach for now? Someone like... "Oh, Oregon!"

Since Uncle Oregon is placed as a soldier at Okauri Country, the authorities cannot track him. Plus, this number must still be listed under his name, and it won't draw suspicion...

Should I clap myself on the back, or should I fidget with my t-shirt instead, to calm my anxiety down?

Ignoring Grand-Mad and Mrs. Sybil's quirked eyebrows, I try to gain recollections of Uncle Oregon's voice. He used to call Auntie Morgan with... Morgan. He always uses a lighthearted tone, and he often uses complicated words—Auntie Morgan might have something to do with that habit.

"Here it goes." Once Mrs. Sybil shoves the phone to me, I almost fail to catch it. My teeth chatter with anticipation, and my fingers are still fidgety. Before I can properly form enough words, I sputter out at the light crackles from the other side, "M-Morgan." It's like my sullen vocal cords have just been snapped by lightning, turning into unnatural and shrill.

When nothing but the harsh forest wind replies to me, I swallow a heavy lump down my throat. Why isn't she answering? Is the call not started yet—

"Oreo, my cookie? Is that you?"