“I’ve heard that no one ever takes these masks off either,” he says, scooting toward the center of the small wooden boat, avoiding the persistent breach by the sea. The mask is a sphere with abalone sheen. Perched above his neck, it’s difficult to determine where he is looking — the constant ebb of colors renders subtly to his movement. He rubs at his arms.

“I’ve got tattoos you know,” he says. “Gave ‘em to myself in high school.”

She eyes the fabric covering his body. It’s black. She supposes there’s a reason that they all get into the boats wearing the same thing.

Back on the shore, she had trembled before her mirror. The room was a large, rectangular cell. The concrete walls extended upward into nothingness — a foundation for the void. At the opposite end of the chamber, tucked against the wall, was an old nightstand. It was made of wood wrought with dimples and cracks. She walked with echo-less steps and let her fingers find the cold touch of the wrought-iron knobs. A silver mirror stood atop the surface, leaning into the wall of the chamber. Its frame was ornate and weathered. The mirror itself was marred by scratches and pitting. A candle had melted down to its last moments of wick, and in the waning glow she thought she looked like a heartbeat.

On the top of the stand was the mask. The black jumpsuit was folded neatly beside it. She looked at herself in the mirror. The Rumors said that this mirror was the last time she would see her own face.

More gravely, they said it would be the last time she would see anyone else’s. She was just about to reach for the mask when she heard the faint sound of dripping. Behind the stand, she crouched down to find a pipe protruding from the wall. It was leaking steadily, its puddle like blood in the shadows.

In the lingering flicker of candle, she painted her name out of the river of rust. After a few minutes, she had exhausted the small stream. She spat on her finger, rubbed it along the pipe, and with one last swoop finished the last letter.

The candle went out.

For whatever reason, she felt less nervous as she rose on shaking knees. Perhaps it was her inability to see how her nerves manifested in her limbs.

One less thing to dwell on.

When she stood, she could see the mask gleaming in the darkness. She pulled the jumpsuit over herself, took a wavering breath, and placed the mask on her head.

“It’ll kill you, if you try to swim,” the boy says. He sounds nervous. She turns her head toward him, imagining the way it must look — a silent white orb bobbing among the black mist. She had been leaning over the boat, staring at the water.

“So?” she asks.

“So you do talk, huh?”

“Not much, really.”

“I was starting to think they had sewn your mouth shut back there,” he motions back behind her.

“They don’t actually do that you know.”

“The Rumors say so. Sometimes people wind up in a boat with one of ‘em, and they don’t talk. Sometimes you can hear ‘em crying beneath the mask though.”

“The stories are obviously fake.”

“How so?”

“No one could know those stories. No one ever comes back from the boats.”

She has a point.

He knows it.

They are silent again.

“So, you got a name?” he asks. They aren't supposed to speak their names.

“Z,” she says.

“X,” he responds. She leans to the side, just enough to peer around X’s body. There is a faint smear of orange seeping into the mist. They are approaching another shore. She feels her heart pounding. Her skin grows cold beneath the jumpsuit.

“So,” she says, trying to ignore her fear, “you think they always bring 26 of us over?”

“You mean because they assign us letters?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll wait to find out. Maybe we’ll find an X-2.”

She laughs.

It’s fake.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re here?” the boy asks.

She hesitates for a moment. They were never explicitly told whether or not they were allowed to talk about how they wound up being sentenced to the boats. She wonders, briefly, if breaking such a rule would even matter at this point.

“I told a lie,” she answers softly.

Neither of them say a word for the remainder of the trip.

As they approach the shore the boat begins to rock more violently. She feels a bit of the water splash onto her legs. They spend a few minutes digging their hands into the wooden benches of the boat, locking their knees against the walls, trying not to topple over the edges. The boat gets rammed by a wave, sending water flooding around their ankles. The force sends her flying forward. She grabs onto X’s shoulders, and he wraps his arms around her waist. The boat drags along the sand until at last, they come to rest on the shore. She takes her hands off his shoulders, noticing how tightly he was holding on to her.

He is scared too.

They both stand up in the boat and look ahead. The mist is receding, and in the clearing view they can see the beach spreading out into the distance. A few torches light the way. Giant stone walls line both sides of the beach and extend into the water like jetties. Further up the hill, the walls come together, leaving just a small gap, a corridor, which winds up the side of a towering mountain.

“I don’t understand the reason for all this ceremony,” she says, stepping defiantly out of the boat and onto the sand.

“Z, wait up,” X calls. He stumbles out the boat and catches up to her. He gets close to her — but they don’t touch. She is marching toward the corridor.

“Do you think anyone ever puts up a fight?” she asks.

“No. What’s the point?”

“Wanting to determine your own fate.”

“This is where kids like us go, though.”

“We aren't kids.”

“I figure it just depends on who you’re asking.”

They stop halfway up the beach. With their eyes they trace the corridor as its stone carves up the hillside. Near the top, the walls dwindle down until all that is left is a trail that curls toward the peak. They squint.

They can see tiny masks passing the torches. More bodies making their way up the hill.

They walk toward the corridor. It is narrower than she thought. They move into a single file and begin to walk. It has a slow curve, and after a few minutes it bends away both behind and in front of them so that all they can see is the giant stone faces and the black strip of sky above them. She begins walking with her head to the sky, wondering what the corridor would look like during the day, when she loses her balance.

She trips slightly and catches herself against the wall. Her mask scrapes briefly along the stone.

“Careful,” X says, “You wouldn't want them to think you’re trying to take that off.”

Before she had gotten on the boat, a man greeted her outside of her cell. He tugged at her mask, making sure it was snug.

“If you attempt to remove this, it all will end,” was all he had said. She had nodded her head, fearfully complacent.

As they continue up the corridor, she stares at the place on her mask where it touched the stone. It is scratched. She rubs at it a bit.

“Hey, Z?” X asks from behind her.

“Yeah?” she answers.

“The Rumors never said anything about what is inside the peak…about what is behind The Door.”

She looks up at the sky again, seeing if the mountain top was in view yet.

The story was always the same. After the boat and the corridor, you meet The Doorman on top of the mountain. After speaking with him, he opens The Door, and you follow the hallway into the center of the peak.

Not even The Rumors had stories of what was beyond The Door.

“Yeah, I suppose I’ve never heard anything,” she answers.

“What do you think is in there?” X asks.

“Who knows. Don’t really care,” she lies.

They reach the end of the corridor and begin winding their way up the skinny pathway. It wraps around the mountain several times before rising ceremoniously toward The Doorman and The Door.

The Rumors had said that The Doorman towers three stories above any normal human, that his mask is black, a void, that it sucks in all color around him so that when you pass him on your way through The Door, you lose all color and light and had only the torches beyond to guide you the rest of the way into the peak.

But The Doorman is only slightly taller than her. He wears the same black jumpsuit. The same abalone mask. There is a sharp ringing emanating from behind the steel of The Door. They walk cautiously toward The Doorman. X approaches him first.

“Deposit your heart here please,” The Doorman says, holding out a steady hand. X reaches into a pocket on his jumpsuit and then removes his hand. He places something small in the palm of The Doorman’s hand.

“What will you do with it?” X asks. The Doorman looks down at what X has handed him, walks to a small panel beside The Door, opens it, and drops whatever he had held into the space beyond it. The Doorman’s steps are slow and heavy — his heels drag lines into the sand. She notices that the grooves dug by his steps are deep, as though he rarely wavers in his journey.

“You will go together,” The Doorman says, pointing at The Door. X backs up and stands beside Z.

“Deposit your heart here please,” The Doorman says, reaching toward her. She hesitates for a moment and looks down at her hands. She wiggles her fingers beneath the jumpsuit.

“Z,” X whispers, nudging her. She is breathing heavily. She looks back down the trail toward the small flicker of the torches on the beach. The waves are rolling single lines toward the island. Silent, muffled by the ringing of The Door.

She is panting.

“I…I’m going to take off my mask,” she says quietly to X.

“No one takes their masks off Z, don’t be stupid.”

“You will comply as instructed. Your heart, please,” The Doorman says again. She notices that the shadow behind him has grown against the mountainside.

“I…I’m going to do it,” her voice is quivering; she can feel her knees wobbling again. The Doorman extends his reach.

“Your heart.”

“Z,” X hisses. She looks to The Doorman, the panel, The Door, and then leans her head back. She feels the warmth of a tear slide its way down her cheek. No one will know she is crying. No one will see the pain etched onto her face. No one will see her mother’s dimples. No one will see the scar above her eyebrow from her youth slung among the tree branches. No one will see her crooked teeth, her freckled nose, the haphazard strands of hair always arching across her brow.

No one will see the color of her eyes.

She reaches out to The Doorman and clasps her hand in his. She grips tight. She can hear the vacant breath from The Doorman’s mouth as it hangs open, and just before he has the opportunity to inform her once again to deposit her heart, she runs past him toward The Door.

Head first, she slams her mask into the cold steel.

“Do not remove the mask!” The Doorman shouts. She braces herself against The Door, cranes her neck back, and then slams her head against it once more. The resounding boom of her mask against the steel out-rings The Door and within moments, her mask has cracked. The Doorman reaches for her but X lunges outward, wrestling with him momentarily before he is thrown backward against the mountain side. She hears X’s mask shatter.

The Doorman races a few paces away and pulls on a hidden lever in the darkness. An alarm sounds. One final crane of her neck.

Her mask has shattered. The pieces fall around her.

She tastes waves on her lips. Her tear dries.

She turns around and finds X in the shadows, staring at her in bewilderment.

They are flying down the corridor, X behind her, struggling to hold onto her hand as she holds onto it the same way he held her on the boat — they are racing. The stone walls become a single gray blur beneath the stripe of night advancing their stake — she holds onto him. There are more bodies racing up the corridor, a solid line of abalone sheen dotting black-suited bodies crammed beneath the walls “Hold on!” she says to X, and just before they collide with the bodies she feels her grip reciprocated as the fabric between their palms becomes a whisper beneath their strength.

She hears the masks shatter. The hands reach for her jumpsuit, claw at her arms, grab for her torso but they are too fast for them. They are too momentous in their stride, too much weight barreling down the hallway of stone linked by heartless hands, X&Z, pedaling downward toward their light.

They are on the beach, sinking into the sand, they still run. X trips, catches himself on his hand, pulls himself up against Z’s grip and keeps going. They reach the boat. It is tied with a thick rope.

“What…how do we…” X is stammering. She grabs a piece of her mask still sticking upward from her neck. She grabs it, pulls on it, and leans deep into it. It cuts at her skin, the blood seeping into her jumpsuit.

More bodies are running out of the corridor and down the beach. The piece of the mask snaps off. She dives to the rope and rocks the piece of mask back and forth vigorously until the rope snaps.

Without hesitation, X helps her push the boat out into the surf. They are soaked and blinded by salt. The sound of feet splashing into the water draws nearer. Her breaths are half ocean, half panic. Her eyes are stinging. An enormous wave races toward them. X screams and shoves the front of the boat through its face.

A stillness follows. They pull themselves into the boat and paddle deeply from the sides. After a few minutes they look back. The shore is lined with white orbs gazing as they drift into the night.

“We are so fucked…so fucked…” X says. He rests his head against the side of the boat.

“Are we?” she is panting, her back flat against the bottom of the boat, “Are we actually?” She is laughing.

She is nervous.

She is free.

“Can I ask you something?” X asks. She sits up. It is the first time she has looked at him since his mask shattered.

It is the first face she was told she’d never see.

“Sure,” she responds, catching a glimmer of color from his eyes as the torches on the beach fade into the mist.

“What is your name?”