He says, “Follow me.”
I follow him out into the hallway. We pass a couple closed doors, and then we come to a door that leads outside.
The sky is dark and clear, but the moon and stars are bright. Cicadas fill the night with their song.
We leave one building and head to another. I quickly scan the area. It appears like we’re out in the middle of nowhere. Three large buildings are positioned in a U formation. A shed—much like the one in that oil field—sits off near the base of a hill. A few vehicles are parked around the buildings—mostly SUVs, a few pickup trucks. One green Jetta with a missing hubcap.
I spot two men walking the perimeter, both with rifles slung over their shoulders.
The man leads me to the middle building. While the other two buildings are two stories tall, this one is three stories. Looks to have maybe a dozen rooms. The man doesn’t seem to worry about me trailing him. I could rush him, grab the gun from its holster, but he knows I won’t. Not with the collar around my neck.
Inside, I follow the man down a polished wooden floor to a large dining room. A middle-aged bald man with wire-frame glasses sits at the head of the table. As soon as we enter, he rises to his feet and does a half bow.
“Welcome to Neverland, Ms. Lin. My name is Oliver Hayward. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Louis, please get Ms. Lin’s chair.”
The man pulls out the chair at the other end of the table. I sit down on the chair, because I know that’s what’s expected of me, and Louis pushes me forward just a bit before he moves to stand with his back against the wall.
Oliver Hayward places his elbows on the table, folds his hands, and studies me.
“I understand Louis needed to zap you earlier. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes these things happen. I do hope the rest of the time you’re with us Louis won’t need to repeat that action. Of course, that all depends on your behavior moving forward.”
A candle flickers in the middle of the table, the room dimly lit. It’s almost intimate, and I start to have a bad feeling where this may be going, but then a door at the other end of the room opens and the woman I only know as Leila Simmons appears.
Hayward rises to his feet again.
“Ah, my love. Thank you for joining us. You know Ms. Lin, of course.”
The woman barely acknowledges me. Her hair is curly again, and she isn’t wearing glasses. She sits down in a chair at the corner near Hayward.
“Just so you know, I already ate.”
“What?”
“I had a sandwich.”
“But our guest!”
She looks at me now, a quick dismissive glance, and sighs again.
“It’s almost midnight. I told you I wasn’t going to eat this late.”
Hayward sighs himself, only his is more disappointed. He’s a peculiar man, nothing at all what I expected based on Louis. Louis is the type of man who looks like he’s spent a couple years in the military. Oliver Hayward, on the other hand, looks like a college professor who yet hasn’t become completely jaded.
“Be that as it may, Carla”—Hayward leaning toward the woman, reaching out to hold her hand—“thank you for joining us. I know it’s late, but I thought our guest could use a familiar face. It might make her feel more at home.”
Carla doesn’t say anything to this. She lets Hayward hold her hand while she uses her other hand to look at something on her cell phone.
The same door Carla came through opens again, and a boy enters. The boy is no more than ten years old. He carries a tray with a glass of water and two glasses of wine on top. A man with a gun holstered to his hip follows him, a black fob in his hand.
The boy pauses first beside Hayward and Carla. He tries to balance the tray with one hand, reach for the wine glasses with his other hand, but it’s clear he’s worried the tray may flip so he sets the tray on the table long enough to set the wine glasses in front of Hayward and Carla before picking up the tray again and walking it down the table toward me. Now with only the glass of water he’s able to balance the tray without trouble, and he sets the glass down in front of me before promptly turning and heading back toward the door he entered through.
Before the boy pushes the door open, Oliver Hayward clears his throat.
“Jose.”
The boy pauses and slowly turns, his face tilted down.
Hayward says, “How many times must you be told never to place your tray on the table?”
The boy doesn’t answer. He keeps his face tilted down, but his body has started to shake.
“I expect an answer, Jose.”
Jose wets his lips. Swallows. Answers in a soft voice.
“Too many.”
“Yes, Jose. Too many times. And quite frankly, I am beginning to tire of reminding you of such a simple command.”
Before Jose can answer again, his body suddenly goes rigid. His head starts to shake. And like that, he’s down on the floor, writhing in pain, the tray having fallen from his fingers and his hands now balled into fists. He doesn’t cry out, though he issues an anguished moaning, and I don’t realize I’ve stood up until Hayward speaks suddenly.
“Sit down, Ms. Lin.”
I don’t sit down, but I don’t move forward either. I just stand there and watch the boy as he continues to writhe on the floor.
Hayward ignores the boy, watching me.
“The moment you sit back down, Ms. Lin, Jose’s pain will stop.”
As Jose writhes on the floor, Carla sits calmly in her chair. One hand still holding Hayward’s while another continues to access her cell phone. Like it’s no big thing the boy is being tortured. Like it happens all the time.
I sit back down, and the
