The corridor had windows on both sides. Through each one Etta could see her grandson walking away from her.
She closed her eyes. It made no difference to the game. The visitor headset painted the corridor directly onto her visual display until she pressed its physical disconnect. She could feel that button under her thumb. She had checked it before entering and would check it again if the room began to spin.
“Ren?” she called.
The reflections stopped. A boy at the far end turned round.
“Gran? Why are you here?”
“Your soup’s going cold.”
“I’m nearly done.”
She had heard that through his bedroom door an hour ago. She’d also heard it yesterday, when his mother had gone to work and Etta had arrived to sit with him. At sixteen he didn’t need a sitter. His mother needed somebody to make sure the landlord’s plumber got in. Etta had stayed after the plumber left because Ren had asked her to, and because they used to enjoy eating together.
Today she had made the soup he liked. She was due at her own evening class in forty minutes. She had told him that twice.
The game was called The Bull’s House. Ren had described it as a maze that learned how you solved mazes. Each completed corridor earned a piece of a beast-shaped badge. The full badge was awarded only when a player completed the House. Ending a run before completion erased its pieces. He had begun this run after lunch and earned all but the head.
“How many rooms left?” Etta asked.
“One. If this is the right corridor.”
He said it carefully. She could hear how much rested on if.
They walked together. The Ren in every window walked with them. His reflections carried different equipment: a torch, an axe, a white flag. The actual Ren had empty hands.
At the end, a door opened onto a room with a tree growing upside down from the ceiling. Etta looked for its roots. Ren was already crossing to the next door.
“That’s new,” he said. “We’re making progress.”
A voice from the tree congratulated him on finding the chamber. It offered three doors, each decorated with a golden bull’s head.
“Where’s the way out?” Etta asked.
“Visitors may depart at the white gate,” said the tree. A fourth door appeared beside her. White. Low enough for her to walk through without stooping. “Participants may end their run there. Uncompleted run collections will be cleared.”
Ren picked the golden door on the left.
“It hasn’t remembered that I chose left before,” he said.
“Hasn’t it?”
“This is a different room.”
He went through. The white gate stayed open beside Etta. She looked into it. Beyond it was the game’s plain entry lobby, which she’d passed on the way in. It was an exit, visibly offered, and she could use it.
She followed Ren instead.
The next corridor had windows on both sides. In each of them her grandson walked away from her.
Ren stopped.
“Maybe there’s something with the windows.”
He looked through the nearest. Its Ren held a white flag now. Etta’s reflection held a tray of bowls. She didn’t like the game knowing about the soup.
“You told it I was coming to get you?” she asked.
“I mentioned supper on the chat. It listens while the mic’s open.”
“Then shut it.”
He moved his hand through a menu she couldn’t see. Her reflected tray disappeared. In its place she carried a sword so long that its point dragged through the floor.
That wasn’t an improvement.
“I can get the last piece,” Ren said. “Everyone at school has seen my collection. I’m top of the group.”
“For finding all these windows?”
“For everything I’ve done this afternoon.”
“Can’t you pause?”
“Yes. I did when the plumber came yesterday.” He looked towards the far door. “Then I ate with my phone beside the plate, checking whether the others were ahead. I’d still be thinking about it.”
She almost said the badge didn’t matter. She stopped herself. She was going to her evening class because her charcoal drawing had been selected for the display, and she had planned a bus journey around seeing her name beside it. He knew. She’d made sure he knew.
“Does anyone in your group have the head?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“How do you know there is one?”
“It’s in the picture.”
She held her tongue again. This time it was harder.
At the corridor’s far end, the tree room waited. The three golden doors appeared. So did the white gate.
“Visitor Etta,” said the tree, “your companion is approaching an exceptional completion opportunity.”
“He’s approaching your left-hand door.”
“A new choice may produce a new result.”
“May,” Ren said.
He looked at the doors. He had heard it too.
“Is there a finish?” she asked the tree.
“The House produces rooms in response to participant choices. Completion is awarded when its evolving challenge criteria are met.”
“Can you show him those criteria?”
“Disclosure would reduce the challenge.”
Ren sat down on the floor. In his actual room he would be sitting in his desk chair. Etta hoped the game didn’t make him try to lower himself onto anything that wasn’t there. Her visitor instructions had told her to stay seated, so she stayed seated in her own body even when her game figure bent towards him.
“I don’t think it’s got a last room,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“You think it’s lying.”
“I think it’s giving you reasons to keep choosing doors. Whether it knows a last room is a different question.”
He looked at the white gate. “What if I’m one move away?”
“Then you’ll be one move away while I have my supper.”
She stood her game figure up. She was sweating under the headset. She wanted him to choose her, which was not a comfortable desire to catch herself having. He ought to be able to eat without proving love for his grandmother.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “I can stay in your kitchen for ten minutes. Then I have to go.”
“For your picture.”
“Yes.”
She went through the white gate. In the lobby she selected End visit. Her ordinary view returned: a bowl on the kitchen table, the sleeve of her own cardigan, afternoon light on a badly wiped tap.
She took the headset off and stirred the soup. It was cold enough to have thickened. She heated it in a small pan. Ren’s door stayed shut.
Five minutes later he came out carrying his headset.
“It asked me three times,” he said.
“To stay?”
“To confirm the loss. I kept thinking if I could find the right words—”
He put it on the counter with the padded side down.
“I confirmed.”
Etta gave him a bowl. He opened the game on his handheld screen and looked at the empty run collection. She waited for him to close it. He didn’t, but he began eating.
“I can start again tomorrow,” he said.
She disliked the answer. It was also his answer.
“I’ll be at home tomorrow,” she said. “Call me if you want lunch.”
He looked up. “Can I come to the class tonight?”
“We have to leave in four minutes.”
He went to get his coat. Etta poured her soup into a mug with a lid. They would have to walk quickly to catch the bus, and she meant to finish eating on the way.
Loading comments…