17
Growing up in Purgatory, I often heard mice scurrying about in the ceilings of our ranch house back on Dante Row. Every so often, I’d even catch sight of a tail hanging out of a particularly cracked ceiling tile, reminding me of the tiny crawl space that existed between the so-called ceiling and the floor above.
Right now, that memory stands out crystal-clear for one simple reason: the vines have just deposited Kiya, Lincoln and me onto a network of white plastic tubes that act as the ceiling for the large cement room below us.
In other words, we’re the mice.
I shift my weight, trying for a better view of the room below by peering through the gaps between the plastic pipes. The place is laid out in classic prison style; it’s two stories tall with an open central space and a wrap-aro
