Chapter 16 - The Drive NorthWe rented a beat-up 2011 sedan using the cash Mr. Miller had left on the porch, leaving Mom behind to manage the social services intake and the federal investigators while Dad and I drove north through the grey, endless pine forests of the state interior.
The Oakridge Institute wasn't a grand hospital or a high-tech corporate campus. When we finally pulled up the overgrown gravel driveway three hours later, we found a sprawling, decaying complex of concrete and corrugated metal buildings half-swallowed by invasive vines and rusted chain-link fences.
“This place was supposed to be demolished a decade ago,” Dad muttered, keeping both hands tightly gripped on the steering wheel as the sedan’s tires crunched over broken glass and gravel.
“State funding ran out before the demolition crews finished the basement levels,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and pulling my phone out to check the offline GPS coordinates Julian had scrawled in the back of his notebook.
We parked near a rusted loading bay bearing a faded, peeling sign: ARCHIVES & RECORDS - SECTOR B.
The heavy steel door wasn't locked; it had been pried open years ago by scrappers or urban explorers. We slipped inside into the cold, damp dark, our flashlights cutting long, trembling beams through swirling clouds of dust and mold spores.
File cabinets stretched down the concrete corridor as far as the beam of our flashlights could reach—thousands of gray metal drawers containing decades of confidential psychiatric evaluations, behavioral logs, and developmental case studies.
“How are we ever going to find his file in this maze?” Dad asked, shining his light along the endless rows of rusted steel.
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“We don't have to,” I said, pointing toward a small, reinforced metal door at the very end of the corridor bearing a handwritten placard: SUBJECT CLASSIFICATION - ALPHA TIER.
We walked down the long hall, our footsteps echoing off the concrete floor like gunshots in the empty facility. When we reached the door, the padlock had already been cut. Someone had been here recently—very recently. Fresh boot prints tracked through the dust on the floor, leading straight into the dark records room beyond.
