The-Infinite-Sea-Pdf

“Seriously? You don’t know?”
“Oh, so sorry I don’t know what Ex-Lax-who-gives-a-shit is.”
“It’s a chocolate-flavored laxative.”
He makes a face. “That’s sick.”
“That’s the point.”
He grins. “The point? Oh God, did you just make a joke?”
“How would I know? Just promise me nobody slipped Ex-Lax into my pudding.”
“Promise.” Tap.
I last for a few hours after he leaves, long after lights-out in every other part of the camp, deep into
the belly of the winter night, before the pressure becomes unbearable, and then, when I can’t take it
anymore, I start shouting for help, waving at the camera and then rolling over to press my chest against
the cold metal railings, pounding my fist into the pillow in frustration and fury, until the door bursts
open and Claire charges in, followed closely by a big bear of a recruit, whose hand immediately flies to
cover his nose.
“What happened?” Claire says, though the smell should tell her all she needs to know.
“Oh, crap!” the recruit burbles behind his hand.
“Exactly,” I gasp.
“Great. Just great,” Claire says, throwing the blanket and sheet onto the floor and motioning for the
recruit to help her. “Fine job, missy. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“Not yet,” I whimper.
“What are you doing?” Claire shouts at the recruit. Gone is the soft voice. Vanished are the kind eyes.
“Help me with this.”
“Help you with what, ma’am?” He has a flattened nose and very small eyes and a forehead that
bulges in the middle. His belly hangs over his belt and his pants are an inch too short. He’s huge; he’s
got about a hundred pounds or more on me.
It won’t matter.
“Get up,” Claire snaps at me. “Come on. Get your legs under you.” She takes one arm and Jumbo
Recruit takes the other and together they haul me out of the bed. Big Recruit’s smushed-in face is
twisted with revulsion.
“Ah, God. It’s everywhere!” he softly wails.
“I don’t think I can walk,” I tell Claire.
“Then I’ll make you crawl,” she snarls. “I should just leave you like this. It’s so perfectly
metaphorical.”
They haul me two doors down and into the shower room. Big Recruit is coughing and gagging and
Claire is bitching and I’m apologizing while she strips off the jumpsuit and throws it at Jumbo Recruit,
telling him to wait outside. “Don’t lean on me. Lean on the wall,” she orders harshly. My knees are
buckling. I hang on to the shower curtain to keep upright; I haven’t used my legs in a month.
With one hand locked around my left arm, Claire pushes me under the water, bending at the waist to
stay dry. The spray is icy. She didn’t bother to adjust the temperature. The slap of cold water against my
body is like an alarm going off, snapping me from a long winter’s hibernation, and I reach up and grab
the showerhead pipe coming from the wall and tell Claire I think I’ve got it; I think I can stand; she can
let go.
“Are you sure?” she asks, holding on.
“Pretty sure.”
I wrench the pipe downward with all the force I have. The pipe breaks off at the joint with a metallic
squeal and the cold water gushes out in a ropey snarl. Left arm up, slipping through Claire’s fingers,
then I’ve got her by the wrist and I swing my body toward her, rotating my hips to maximize the blow,