This is THEY 3

 I stared at the scribble.  It was an incomprehensible mess filled with lines and symbols representing a rudimentary map.  I turned it around, upside down, and backwards in the hope of making sense out of it.  I held it up against the light to see if there was a hidden message - there wasn’t.  I even tried unfolding the napkin out of a desperate plea that there was something hiding in there somewhere.  No luck.  I’d just have to find him later, or him me.

Soon enough, it was time for eats again, though I could’ve sworn we just ate not that long ago.

During our numerous shuffling around, I found myself attending various Group meetings that were supposed to support us, yet were strangely uninformative."

Good day,” said the woman who looked to be in charge.  “We're gathered here to speak freely about any feelings you may have about having woken up in a time you're unaccustomed to."

After a long period of protracted silence from sitting members who looked comatose and uncomfortable at being here, I raised my hand

"What’s going on outside?"

"This is a safety zone.  It's not the time or place to be confrontational."

"I'm not trying to cause any problems.  I just want some definite answers."

"This isn't the place for asking questions.  We're here to address any deep-sated concerns you may have, not for asking questions that could trigger trauma."

"Well, where DO I go for any answers?!"

"That's not my department.  You'll have to ask elsewhere."

Of course, I never did find out, because she and everybody there remained elusive about giving me any straight answers.

“...nothing...”

“Can I go outside?”

“No.”

“Can I use the device?”

“No.”

“Can I do some cooking?”

“No.”

“Can I have a cookie?”

“No.”

It would’ve been a lot easier if they told me what I could do, rather than what I couldn’t do.   But it turned out that even that had its limitations.

“Can I ride a bicycle?”

“Yes.”

“Can I - ”

I was so shocked to hear an affirmative, that I almost automatically segued into my next request, (which probably would’ve been shot down), before it registered.  “I mean, Great!  Where can I ride one?”

“You need to apply for a riding license.  Which we’re not permitted to give.  Then you need a physical bicycle, which we don’t have.  Then you need open space to ride said bicycle, which isn’t available.  Until more than ten people show up to join, there isn’t much incentive to provide the resources for said transportation device.”

“How many have asked so far?”

“You’d be the first.”

I tried to convince the lethargic members there that joining up for a bicycle-riding club, mainly ANY club that would be worthy of their attention.  But none of them displayed the slightest amount of interest.  The results wound up being the same for anybody else I tried to pitch to.  Turns out they had their own narrow fields of interest, and were loath to share theirs with anyone who didn’t display the same amount of passion.  Or they wanted to keep their private hobbies solely to themselves.

Ironically enough, one of the few items not on the restricted list was writing. It was encouraged to keep a diary to review our thoughts, and keep our minds engaged,. To acclimate myself to my current life by comparing it to my old one. But taking notes was trickier than I thought. For some reason, although we had access to lots of paper, pencils & pens weren't allowed. (We were supposed to apply for writing material, but they ran out of forms to order more) Even though there were surmountable obstacles preventing us from keeping anything tangible, I managed to find clever ways to work around these restrictions.

Paper was no great hurdle - there were loads of the stuff on the floor, often in the form of half-completed memos and abandoned puzzles. The other side was blank, which was easily put to use. The tricky part was getting a writing implement substitute. In order to to do so, I had to endure some short-term discomfort by purposely “wetting” myself, and claiming my bag was defective, and needed a replacement.

Once the necessary paperwork came through, I used my latest "compost heap" bag to hold extra rations of the mysterious meal we were continuously fed. Then, with the help of a valve, I could leak out some fluid out the other end, making a rudimentary pen. This was tricky, because I had to calculate the right amount of liquid that could be used without overflowing. And it didn't dry instantly, so I had to take care not to rub my hand against the still wet "ink".