Eve looks at me, takes a deep breath and talks phones. When Ama went back to the chalet this morning, she told Eve we had to hand in our Chronophones. Eve reminded her she still had hers. Le Temps doesn’t know about Eve’s phone. We can use it for emergencies. They put the Time Squad number and all our contacts onto Eve’s phone. So Ama felt better about handing her Chronophone back. We must have a strategy with the phones, now we know my TwentyTwenty’s still working. The text this morning came through no problem.

‘Elle, let’s swap. You have mine. It’s off their radar; they don’t know the number. I’ll camp here with the TwentyTwenty. Any problems, text me.’

I can’t imagine Eve camping in the chalet all afternoon. It’s a warm day and she’s got more energy than all of us put together. Even her words spark with energy. I bet she’ll get bored and leap to 2100 and find Kwesi and Noon. And I don’t like the idea of swapping phones. Though I haven’t used it all week, I want to keep my own phone in my own bag. Eve’s Chronophone is silver. I wish it was white. But things are serious now. Kwesi, Noon and Season are missing. If Le Temps is cutting off our communication, what will he do next?

Eve gives me her Chronophone. I take it in my right hand. I’m still holding the TwentyTwenty in my left. She raises her eyebrows. I move my left hand towards her but can’t bring myself to let go. My phone = my life. Even though I got trolled in 2020. Even though it can’t make calls in the past or the future. The present is 2048. It works in the present. Eve holds out her hand. She smiles at me.

Kwesi, Noon and Season are missing.

I hand over the TwentyTwenty.

My lifeline’s in her hands.

Chapter 18:00: Survival of The Fittest

Chapter 18:00

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

The afternoon workshop is also held outside. Le Temps says the weather has been kind to us but I don’t agree. It’s munny – muggy and sunny at the same time – hot as June, not like March at all. The air feels heavy, the sun harsh. The sky is a sickly yellow.

The workshop is running round the grounds, excluding the woods. There’s a flat field behind the centre where the Annuals did jumping yesterday when I was taken ill. I think the original plan was to kill animals in the woods but Le Temps is trying to be nice to us. He doesn’t want any more arguments. I see him yawning. He must be tired, running two workshops in one day. Thankfully, Mange-Tout isn’t there. I hope they’ve been locked away in a metal cell, where they belong.