Chapter Text
“The striking feature of Selaginella lepidophylla, is its adaptation to conditions of prolonged drought in its natural environment. It deploys the physiological strategy of drying up and rolling inwards in the absence of water to form a ball, and can survive for up to several years.”
[World Flora Online]
Keith’s never had his own room. The one they give him at the Garrison is a tiny rectangle with a shitty mattress, a flimsy desk, and a battered dresser, but it’s also the first space that’s his. It has a sliver window, a working light, and a lock on the door.
Keith’s never had a key. He has one now on a cheap little Garrison logo keychain. It’s a tacky satellite keychain with GG scrawled across it.
There are still scabs on his knuckles. The fight was almost two weeks ago, but between then and now, Keith’s life is nearly unrecognizable. Some guy Keith didn’t even catch the name of showed him to his room, and then left him to it. Keith let himself in with the key, locked the door behind him, and has been sitting on the bed ever since in a kind of numb confusion.
It’s hard not to believe that at any moment he’s going to wake up and be back in that group home. That Lee and his fuckin gang of goons aren’t going to walk in and deliver the payback Lee had promised.
Keith’s hands curl around the key, feeling the cold metal dig into his skin. He should probably be doing something— unpacking his tiny duffle worth of personal items, or booting up the brand new Garrison laptop to look through the packet of paperwork emailed to him– but the last week has drained him utterly. It’s all he can do just to sit here and try to wrap his mind around it.
He stole a car, and ended up here .
Keith takes a deep breath. His stomach is a painful hollow, and he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore all the painful, twitchy parts of his body. Fatigue hangs on him like an albatross, and it has for days now. He’s been barely sleeping, too afraid Lee would catch him unawares.
But here there’s a lock on the door.
Not that Lee even knows where the fuck here is. Not that Lee could get anywhere near this place with all the security all around. Keith cased the place on the way in, a subconscious habit now from a lifetime of needing to know the easiest way out, and the Garrison has no easy way in or out.
The case manager dropping him off was carded three times at gated entry points on the way in, and their car was checked for stowaways. Keith’s dufflebag had likewise been searched, and it was only his foresight to tape the knife to the inside of his thigh (and that there was no metal detector he was made to walk through) that had gotten it into the campus at all.
All the lock-picking and fence-jumping skill he’s cultivated over the last few years won’t help Keith here. The Garrison is as locked down as juvie.
His other hand idly picks at the fraying on the knee of his jeans. He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. How he has an identification badge that gets him into a library full of books, into a cafeteria full of food, a key to a room that is all his own.
Keith pushes himself up onto his feet. For a moment the blood rush is dizzying. He ignores it, walks the four strides to the door. It’s still locked. He checks the bolt, flicking it back and forth.
The room is bare and smells of bleach, but it’s still one of the nicest places he’s ever been given as a room. He’ll share a bathroom with the other cadets on this floor, but Keith’s never had a private bathroom anyway. He’s shared toothbrushes and underwear and beds before, so even having his own sleeping space is practically luxury accomodations.
Outside the sliver window above the bed Keith can see the sky is pink and orange with sunset. He knows he should probably take a trip out to the cafeteria before it gets dark, but after all the people he had to see on the way in, he can’t imagine having to any more.
Being constantly scrutinized is exhausting, and the food will be there in the morning.
Keith flicks off the light and walks back to the bed. He moves his ID badge, key, and laptop to the desk and then curls up on the bare mattress. There’s a pile of sheets for the bed stacked on the dresser, but Keith can’t be bothered. He’s slept on the ground, outside so many times before, a bare mattress is nothing.
Keith curls up, shoes still on, jean fabric digging into the back of his knees. He brings his knuckles to his mouth, rubbing the bumpy texture of the scabs against his lips.
Across the room there’s a small block of light where the window lets light in to paint the wall. Keith stares at it, breathing alone in the dark.
He hates the lock on the door, the fact that he has his own room. These things make him want to believe he’s safe, and he can’t afford to believe in that. Can’t afford to let his guard down. Too many times he’s wanted to believe in safety, only to find the betrayal come swift and cold in the night.
Eventually exhaustion wears down his vigilance though. Long after the sun has set and the room has become pitch black, Keith’s eyes slip closed.
He sleeps.
##
Keith wakes up sick and shaky and still tired. His joints are stiff when he uncurls, and his jaw aches from clenching it. His head is pounding either from the stress or the blood sugar drop.
He hardly feels up to exploring the cafeteria now, but he knows he has no choice. There’s not much longer he can push his body before it totally gives out on him, and that’s not something he can let happen in such a new environment. Keith’s familiar with his limits, and the vertigo as he sits up is a final warning bell.
He eases out of the bed and trudges to his duffle bag. Tucked beneath his clothes is the knife he unstuck from himself the second he was behind a locked door. He picks it up now and turns to the bed. There’s no ceiling tiles here or reachable vents, so the mattress will have to do. Keith pulls it a little away from the wall, and then on the backside uses the blade to discreetly cut a hole into the bottom of the box spring. He slips the knife up inside, tucking in there.
Not the best hiding spot he’s ever done, but until he knows this campus better, he can’t risk taking it out of the room.
Then he pushes the mattress back and finally makes the bed with shaking fingers.
The headache is a piercing pain between his temples by the time he strips off his clothes and pulls on something fresh. The hoodie is black as are the jeans, and both have seen better days. They’ll have to do for now. The information packet has all the information on picking up Keith’s new cadet uniforms, but that’ll be a task for later. He still has a week until classes start officially.
From the duffle Keith grabs a hairbrush and toothbrush and his key, and lets himself out.
The bathroom on their floor is empty. Keith doesn’t know what time it is exactly, but he has the sense that it’s early. The light coming in his window was still gray blue, just beginning to be dawn. Likely a lot of the cadets aren’t even on campus yet. Keith is kind of a special case, so he’s been dropped off early.
But he’s grateful not to run into anyone. In the mirror his reflection is rough. His hair is squashed from sleeping on it, and his cheeks look especially pale. He runs a brush through his hair and then scrubs a toothbrush around his mouth to clear himself of the stale taste of sleep.
He returns both things to his room, relocks the door and then heads back down the hallway.
The dorm building is silent. Keith takes the stairwell down two floors, hand on the railing since he’s feeling unsteady, and doesn’t run into a single person the whole way down. As he exits the building he can only see someone across the way walking.
The advisor that had shown Keith to his room had also, prior to that, given him a brief tour of the campus. He hadn’t walked Keith around everywhere, but had covered the gym, library, cafeteria, and the block of buildings where classes would take place. Keith had stored all that knowledge at the time, and now he finds himself following the path toward the cafeteria easily. Being able to orient oneself quickly in a new space is key to survival.
##
There are more people around the cafeteria. It’s still not the amount he expects to see, so it really must be early, but through the glass Keith can see people moving around within. He walks in the door and is met by a pair or turnstiles.
Keith pulls out his ID badge and puts it to the scanner. A green light means he pushes through them, and is admitted to the cafeteria.
It’s laid out similar to a mall food court. There’s a whole line of buffet-style foods along the side walls and then tables taking up the rest of the space. Almost every table is empty because of the early hour. The ones that are taken have people hunched over their breakfasts or tapping away on datapads and computers.
Keith walks over to one of the food bars and grabs a tray from the stack. This side of the bar looks like all hot food— eggs, French toast sticks, sausage links, hashbrowns, a waffle making station, as well as rice, beans, and some things Keith doesn’t immediately recognize. He takes his tray across the room to the other side. Here there are stacks of fruits, bagels and muffins, dry cereal in little packages. Keith grabs some things there, loading up his tray with extras that he can take back to his room.
Then he goes to the drink area at the end. There’s small single serving milks, juices, and waters as well as a dispenser machine. Keith pulls free a cup from the stack and fills it nearly to the brim with ice and water.
He parks himself in the far corner away from any other occupied table. No one has paid him the slightest amount of attention, but the hum of anxiety is worse than normal because he hasn’t eaten in so long. Keith cracks open the container of dry cheerios and forces a handful into his mouth.
They taste like cardboard, and when he crunches down, and his teeth hurt immediately. Sometimes chewing hurts in the way that muscles do when they haven’t been used in a while. He goes slowly then, working through the cereal, waiting to see if his stomach will protest.
There’s two bathrooms in the cafeteria. Keith’s already bookmarked those just in case. He idly watches the entrance of the cafeteria as people come in and out. Most walk out with fruit or to-go containers, so Keith knows he’ll be able to take food without issue. Even if he wasn’t allowed, he’d still do it. He can’t rely on his ability to eat here in public.
Keith almost finishes the cheerios before he starts to feel that familiar nausea. He switches to the water, sucking it down until the cup is just ice. He tips a cube of ice into his mouth, crunching down on the slippery, cold surface. For the first time this morning he feels like he can take a full breath. The jittery background noise in his body abates.
It’s time to go.
All the hoodies Keith’s bartered or stolen over the years have a great deal of pockets, because he has always needed a great deal of pockets. He uses the one he’s wearing now to stash the rest of the food, making sure no one is watching him. He knows he could just put it all in a to-go container like everyone else is, but that feels too unsafe.
Keith returns the tray, tops off the ice in the cup, and leaves. His steps are brisk back through campus to his building. There’s more noise when he lets himself back inside and takes the stairs up, but he doesn’t run into anyone in the stairwell. Most people choose the elevator, and so Keith will always choose the stairs.
There’s a brief spike of fear when he pulls out his key to unlock his room. For a second he’s certain that they won’t work. That this has all been some elaborate prank, or Keith’s entirely lost his mind.
But then the door unlocks and he’s pushing inside quickly, shutting it behind him and locking it. His heart is racing.
In the bottom drawer of the dresser Keith stuffs all the food. His stomach has mostly settled from the walk and he’s hungry again, but doesn’t take out anything to eat. The contents of the drawer are meager— two apples, two small cereal boxes, a muffin, and a handful of jam packets.
He wishes he had a backpack, something he could bring to the cafeteria and stuff full of food. Something that wouldn’t look conspicuous in the space. He’s had backpacks at a lot of the placements, but usually they were provided by the family or group home. The Garrison isn’t that kind of a place, and clearly they’ve not had thoughts to Keith needing one. The Garrison is an expensive place, and probably everyone else has parents with money who are taking care of them.
Keith sits on the bed, tapping at the cup in his hands. The ice rattles. He has a meeting with a Garrison therapist in a week as a condition of his admittance— maybe he could bring up needing a backpack then? Keith hates asking for things, but having a bag would be really, really helpful, and Keith certainly can’t just go to the campus general store and buy one.
He sighs, fishing out a piece of ice to crunch it. New places fucking suck . It’s exhausting to relearn the rules, and where everything is. Exhausting to always be working with a clean slate, all the things he’d previously accumulated stripped from him as if they were meaningless.
Keith knew the moment he was swinging at Lee that he’d lose the books and the lighter and the waterproof backpack he’d managed to get, but he’d done it anyway. It had been worth it to break that kid's fucking nose.
He scoops out another piece of ice and shifts, contemplating the laptop.
Except for trips to the bathroom, Keith has no intention of venturing out of the room again today. He might as well set up the laptop and familiarize himself with all the Garrison paperwork. If he is going to survive here, he’ll need all the information he can get. Keith will be eighteen in less than six months, so he knows this is his last chance to make something of his life. People are willing to hand opportunities to troubled kids, they’re invested in an underdog story.
But no one cares once you turn eighteen. Then you’re just a drain on society, a punk, a criminal. Keith’s not stupid, he’s seen it happen to dozens of foster kids before him. If he doesn’t want to end up on the dead-end path, he has to make the Garrison work.
Fatigue dogs him, but Keith knows he won’t sleep. He’s lucky to have slept what he did last night, so he might as well be productive now. He can’t let this opportunity slip away.
He reaches for the laptop.