Miro dozes off after the Highlifes left.

The treehouse's manual book has thick pages, yet it's still as light as a feather. Once I lay on the couch, I flip it open. Words glare out from the sandy, recycled papers. On their sides are bad furniture sketches. A two-dimensional cabinet and a metal arm from the kitchen counter, which looks like a wooden stick, are a few examples.

Curiosity urges me to press a loudspeaker icon on the page's corner. "There are three in-wall drawers," Sandra's pretentious robotic voice echoes. My fingers fumble for a volume button on the book's jacket once Miro stirs.

"There is one opposite our beds, one behind the couch, and the last is under a photograph—Roy, give that back!"

Swallowing down a chuckle, my shadow drifts off the couch as I stagger to the kitchen, where the said photo frame sways on the wall. The lamp's orange hues illuminate their faces. The sight of Roy with an untidy maroon suit side-hugging Sandra, whose sleeveless white dress complements her black eyes, brings a smile to my face.

Are they best friends or lovers? Anyway, whichever that is, they suit each other well. Their best and worst traits patch each other's up. Like Dad with his amusing jokes and Mom's quietness. They're different, yet so alike at once.

It must be good to have someone that close. How does it feel to have someone behind one's back? How did they forge that relationship at first?

Will I ever have someone like that?

But no, what if I'm meant to be a lone wolf?

Sighing, I shamble to the window, where Ax's sprawling silhouette is visible from. A crowd of night-colored bats flutter about outside, their wings flapping sloppily. Wintry winds seep through the sills, aching my bandaged injuries while passing a message.

I should get used to this loneliness. No creatures can possibly change my lone wolf nature... for now.

🐾

The hut is scorching. Sunlight pierces through the windows. The air conditioner, according to Miro, relies solely on wind. The manual setup includes mind-boggling descriptions which slacken the jaws of both a nineteen and six year old.

But this complicated situation is far better than having to join the mass of Lowlife ravagers at the streets. In a sudden critical time like this, especially when Highlifes have taken most of the life supplies, they must be out with their makeshift weapons and either steal or hunt in Huntshire Woods. We've never done it before, but it's one of the scariest things about being a Lowlife.

I rise from the couch to reach the door, trying to allow the outside air to chill the treehouse. But a force tries to break inside, pushing me back. With overwhelming panic, I muster all my strength to push the door.

Are we found? Why doesn't this intruder knock—wait, do intruders do that?

"Open up, junkhead. It's Roy."

Heat blossoms on my cheeks as I unbolt the door. I rack my brain for an excuse, but none surfaces. As Roy darts inside, carrying various items, I catch a glimpse of his ear-to-ear smirk.

How many times have I been a fool?

Miro jumps on his feet, as if greeting one of his goofy best friends at school. His stomach rumbles out a monstrous roar. "What do you have there, Roy?"

There's something off as he mutters while arranging his belongings on the couch, "I need to restock food. I hope you don't mind late breakfasts." He smiles apologetically. "Good thing I'm a good feeder. Anyway, Sandra won't be here until 5 PM since she's sleeping and all that, so I'll be your guide for today." His words are too tensed and formal. Is there something going on?

"Sorry for earlier," I mumble.

With shallow breath, he turns to me like a hawk. "Don't leave without me or Sandra. What if someone sees you? All our effort yesterday would be useless. Think about your cousin too. The outside world is also in chaos—armed Lowlifes and policemen everywhere, animals lurking in the shadows..."

The room falls into a silent abyss.

Roy's brows are like diving crows above his narrowed eyes. "Lindra," he exclaims to the ceiling. "TV, please. Channel Four."

"Turning on," a woman's robotic voice creeps out of nowhere, triggering goosebumps on my arms. My eyes scan the room. There are only three of us. Is that a ghost? And how can Roy remain calm?

"Lindra is our virtual assistant, not a ghost." Tension drains from Roy's face as he chuckles. "Technology. I have her at home too. Quite useful if you and your bed are still having a great time together."

Revision: me and my couch, since I've never slept on a bed after I left babyhood.

I gulp as a square opening forms on the wall, like opened windows in pirate ships whenever cannons are readied. Slowly, a blank screen pushes its way out, planting itself on the wall. It's alive with crackles. Gradually, an old news anchor replaces the void, his stiff stance mimicking a bald eagle.

"Update from Ornamental City Zoo: almost all loose animals are contained. Some are still roaming around the streets; please stay safe and avoid their likely hideouts, such as bushes, parks, Huntshire Woods, and abandoned buildings."

"It's been a day and more." I struggle to hide the acid from my sentence. "And are they coming to Huntshire Woods?"

"Don't get too irked up." Roy pats my shoulder. "You know, they're looking for your shrimps too."'Busy rattlings come from the couch's bottom, as if they're responding to our conversation. "We should move them somewhere safer," he murmurs after a few sighs.

"Twenty-six are dead from animal attacks. 192 people are hospitalized, ten of them critical."

Medical information like this is similar to Auntie Morgan's tale of Lockdown Age.

"OCZ reports the missing animals are as follows: nine Mantis shrimps, a Sumatran tiger, three hyenas, five Fallow deers, a Greater bird-of-paradise, and two baboons. Everyone should stay home to avoid being injured. One wrong move, and these animals may rest you in peace. An act of disobedience, and the police may approach you with Moldy Handcuffs." A solemn look passes the news anchor's face; is he mourning over someone? "We're moving on to the next news: thousands of Okauri immigrants crossed Alastair Ocean this morning, but detained by the coastguard at..."

The specialized container jolts as the shrimps grow restless. Some of them are scarred and hurt; now, are they solitary animals? If they are, it would explain how they got those fresh injuries.

"Maybe we should make a stronger safe. These are aggressive creatures; even OCZ's special aquatic cages aren't that strong against them. I can't imagine how Irene works with them daily." Roy wrinkles his nose as he searches for an available space on the walls. "What do they eat?"

Miro shoots with a downcast stare, "Our skin, Roy."

The mentioned grimaces at the massive bandages wrapped around our arms.

Before I blink away from the TV, a question from last night bursts out of my mouth, "Do you happen to know anything of OCZ's gray sewers, Roy? It might be an important clue. My auntie researched—"

He pinches my upper arm and leaves a sting, as if using a crab's pincers. "Not here, Allice. Not here."

🐾

If my skin is made of a candle, I would melt now. Is this weather a sign of how we should've stayed indoors instead of returning to Selenite Landfill?

"I brought you some clothes. And old pajamas for Miro; I hope he doesn't mind." Sensing my heavy sigh at the mention of Miro, Roy says, "Don't worry, Lindra will keep an eye on him. He's already quite mature for kids his age."

"No... but yeah, that too." It's more like how to tell him about his mom.

We shamble side by side, past the lush trees which hurl painful flashbacks at me. Bugs and birds are comparing their sounds; which can disrupt our conversation the most? The ground is bleak and muddy like a pudding.

How far is Selenite Landfill? Can the sunlight move somewhere away from my eyes?

Roy hops over a log spammed with bugs, securing the ropes clinging to his body. "Do you know that this rainforest isn't always rainy, Allice?"

"We wouldn't be sweating if it always rains," I mumble out. An uneasiness still tugs inside me at his mysterious act from earlier. Why does he want to keep the gray sewers topic for another time?

"True." Like a wary deer, he snaps his head around, his knuckles curled on his sides. "We're in a dry season now, just like the rest of Dogson."

The lessening trees show that we're nearby. The wasteland used to be a part of Huntshire Woods, after all. Other than squiggly stumps and the dried logs, parts of the rainforest are stripped clean there. I look around like Roy, searching either for any missing animals mentioned in the news; for unwanted policemen's appearances; for any desperate Lowlifes.

"You know, Allice, Sandra and I also knew you from... somewhere else. How familiar are you with Huntshire?"

It's as if his words shake the ground underneath. "But the police said no reporters..."

Bits of the wasteland crack under his harsh treads. "They fussed over Sandra's dad until he couldn't take it anymore. It makes her guilty... what he did."

A heavy pang slams on my chest. So all of Dogson knew what happened thirteen years ago?

"I know it's been a long time, but sorry for your loss. You know, Allice, it's not your fault—"

I fervently shake my head. If it's not mine, then whose?

Roy peeks into the nearly-full glass tube, as if anticipating another escapee. "We're a day earlier than the pickup schedule. Well, look—the black sacks Sandra wanted are still there."

I exhale a soft breath at the switching topic.

"Will I have to go down?" I stifle my nose. Yesterday, rotten tomatoes and perfume cost me half a soap bottle. Why would someone use perfume before eating?

"Of course. We need everything metal. Sandra and I never went down since we never look for a specific material. You're the one requesting this safe."

Regret wells at the pit of my chest.

Strapping the rope around my waist and the other edge to a rusty nail near the hole, I venture back to that rotten chasm. Staring down spins my head. Lucky the landing isn't too far below. Once my toes touch the top sack, I search for clanging items, my palms scuttling from a protruding piece to another.

I look at a fat sack with an antenna poking out of it. The sides are bulking round. Through its rips, a static eye stares at me. Jerking back, I tumble over other sacks, pressing down a scream. "It has an eye—"

"What? Human eye?"

A lump evaporates from my throat. It lacks an eyeball—obviously aren't human's. But what if it pretends to be dead? What if it's actually a mask, waiting within a sack? What if it soon clutches me in a deadly grip, refusing to unlock me from its nails?

Blame the cursed shrimps for those thoughts.

"Bring that up, Allice. The rope's going down. Attach the hook to the sack's knot and I'll pull it up."

"Won't it rip the sack?"

"I've done this hundreds of times with Sandra. Unless you're a clumsy toenail, nothing will happen."

Then it hits me, after seconds glaring at those eyes. The same look was on a newspaper I once delivered. The headline is a blur in my memory, but if there's a thing I can relate to this creature, it's Jorge Zaragoza.

He was glueing eyes on a robot which was propped on his desk. Weeks—or was it a month—ago?

"Roy, I think we have something of Jorge's."