Chapter 5: Imani

I’ve never met Imani before, but if she works in the kitchen, that’s likely the best place to find her. So that’s where I go.

Stepping into the cafeteria, I’m greeted by the strong smell of industrial-grade cleaning products. The chairs are stacked on top of the tables, and a janitor I don’t recognize is in the corner mopping the floor. I nod at him then head to the large double doors that lead to the kitchen.

I push through them and see an enormous commercial kitchen. Nearly every surface is metal, from the stovetops to the cupboards. It’s as if whoever built the New Unity had leftover material and decided to fashion a kitchen with the scraps. To my right, a woman is feeding potatoes through a bulky machine that chops them into tiny squares and deposits them into a deep metal container. She has headphones in and jumps in fright when she sees me standing by the door.

“Jesus,” she shouts, pulling her headphones off, “you scared me.” I look at the front of her white chef’s apron but don’t see a name.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m looking for Imani. Is she here?” The woman shifts her weight to fully face me. She squints her eyes and looks me up and down.

“Who’s asking?” she says, her voice suddenly more cautious than it had been moments before.

“A friend told me to find her,” I say, hesitant to tell her my name. The less people know about me, the better. “Trevor sent me.” At the mention of Trevor’s name, the woman visibly softens.

“Oh,” she says, “Okay. She’s in the back.” She nods her head behind her, and I say thanks before going to find Imani. The kitchen is larger than I expected, with about half a dozen prep stations situated in the room. I make my way toward the back, where the door to a deep pantry is propped open.

I knock before stepping inside, and I’m shocked by the rows of shelves that contain everything from fresh produce to crates of the disgusting nutrition bars we’re required to eat. Two rows down, I see someone checking something off a clipboard as they take inventory.

“Imani?” I say, hopeful it’s her. Her face is blocked by the boxes on the shelves, so we can’t see each other, but she doesn’t say anything back to me. I head in her direction and call her name again, but she continues to move down the aisle.

Finally, I turn down the row to see a short woman in the same white chef’s apron tapping her pencil on a box as she counts whatever’s inside. Her thick black hair is pulled away from her face, and I can see a thin, dark scar running across her jawline.

I’m about to say her name again when she notices me in the corner of her eye. She turns to face me, her movement quick but fluid, unlike the surprised jolt the other woman had given.

“Imani?” I ask. I begin to talk, but she shakes her head and points to her ear, and I realize she’s deaf. She signs something to me, but I can’t understand it. I apologize and wish I knew even basic sign language, but I’d never learned anything more than “thank you.”

Seeing my confusion, she steps toward me and pulls a pad of paper from one of her many pockets. She sets it on a nearby shelf and writes something on it before holding it out to me.

Are you looking for me?

I look at her and nod. She smiles then writes again on her notepad.

How can I help?

She then hands me the paper and pen, and I quickly write down my response.

Trevor told me to find you.

She furrows her brow then examines me more closely, just like the other woman had. She looks both worried and wary, as if she knows it can’t be good news that Trevor sent me here by myself. She takes the pencil and writes on the pad still in my hand.

Why?

I gulp. I’m unsure how much she knows, or how well she even knows Trevor, but he trusted her, so I do too. I take back the pencil and place the pad on the shelf so I can write easier.

Trevor was killed. He went to search the sublevel, but security found him, and they killed him. He left me a note telling me to come look for you if something happened to him.

Imani reads the note, and I’m surprised to see tears spring up in her eyes. She places her hand over her heart and closes her eyes for a moment, as if in prayer. The tears roll down her face and drip to the ground, but when she opens her eyes, there isn’t sadness, only a steely determination. She takes the pencil and writes.

Why did he tell you to find me?

She holds the pencil out to me, but I hesitate to grab it. I don’t know if I trust her enough to tell her my secret. She registers my hesitation and writes something.

Are you looking for someone too?

Those five words threaten to break me. Seeing it in writing, all the fear and worry I feel for Sanjeet threatens to boil over, spilling across the barricades that I’ve so carefully constructed. Try as I might, I haven’t made much progress on my own. And if I’m right and it’s only a matter of time before security realizes why I’m here, then I need to start trusting people.

I nod.

Imani looks at me, her eyes glistening again. For a moment, I wonder if Imani is here looking for a missing loved one too. If that’s why Trevor and I came aboard, who’s to say there aren’t others? Suddenly, I’m struck with the realization that it may not just be me against everyone else. Maybe there are others who are just as scared but just as determined to find out what’s happening.

And if there are others like me, then maybe we can work together. Maybe Trevor, with all his unhindered talk about finding Elizabeth, somehow stumbled across a group of people just like him. Just like us.

What do you need? Imani writes. I’m touched by her kindness, by her concern for someone she just met. I hope Sanjeet was able to find people like this, wherever he is now.

I need to get to the sublevel. I write. Before Trevor was killed, he said he saw people down there.

Imani looks up at me, surprise and confusion on her face. I’m not sure if it’s because I told her I need access to a restricted area or because there are people down there. She looks at me more closely then back down to what I’ve written. Her eyes bounce back and forth between the paper and me, as if determining what to do next, determining if she can trust me.

Finally, Imani gently takes the pencil from my hand and writes her response.

Okay. Meet me here, 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. I’ll have a security badge for you, so be prepared to use it. It’ll only last a few hours.

Tears fill my eyes, and I want to pull Imani into a hug, but she grabs me first. Her grip is strong, and she smells like cinnamon. I wrap my arms around her and let myself get lost in the moment, if only for a few seconds.

I’ve finally made a dent, finally made progress in my search for Sanjeet.

Now, all I have to do is wait until tomorrow.