The knob flicked down, and she quickly pushed it open, standing back at the doorframe. The first thing she saw was her reflection in the mirror, her sunken brown eyes strained and tired, one of the buttons on her blazer straining around her bosom—one too many pastries, too little fieldwork. Then, something rolled against her foot, a Q-tip from underneath the sink.
She lifted the pistol.
The boy tossed something in her face, and she was suddenly soaking wet and burning at the same time. Amita screamed, stumbling back, clawing at her face. She crawled backwards, everything black and dark until she thumped against the edge of her desk.
Her eyes managed to catch a glimpse through the veil of sweltering pain.
Wesley was in the doorway, an open bottle of bathroom cleaner in his hand and a razor in the other. Her fingers scrambled against the pistol, raising it and taking a shot. Wesley ducked out of the way, back into the bathroom, the mirror behind him shattering as the bullet wedged itself into the drywall.
Everything was searing. She reached up to the desk, knocking over photo frames and an award she’d received fifteen years ago. Her hands clutched around her stainless-steel water bottle. Wincing through the pain, she spun off the cap and dumped the water over her face, trying to wash out the cleaner from her pores.
“Dad!” Wesley screamed from the other side of the wall.
Amita couldn’t decide if she was livid or impressed. It was clear this was Diana Weick’s son—resourceful and brave. Albeit, reckless and overcompensating. Her face still burned, but some of the pain had subsided; she went back to the bathroom, this time more cautious as she rounded the corner, holding the pistol close to her body.
Wesley was bent over his father’s still body. Rex Tennison was facedown, his back exposed, bleeding and pussing. It smelled as well, an unsightly infection that had taken over his entire body.
“Dad!” Wesley cried again, shaking his father, holding his fingers up to his neck and trying to flip him over. “We gotta go, Dad!”
He managed to flip him over, his back squishing against the tile beneath him, more liquid gushing out. With his palms pressed against his father’s chest, Wesley began CPR. It was evident that he didn’t have much for first-aid experience. He was only a child.
“We have to do something!” Wesley screamed at her, his face red with tears. His wrists were bleeding, worn from the zip ties. His nails were all broken and chipped. There was a brief moment when Amita felt a very small twinge of guilt. But it was fleeting and unreliable, just as everything else was in her life, even her prisoners.
Quickly, but not running, Amita left the bathroom, rushing down the hall while she checked the time on her phone. Agents would be in soon. Reina, perhaps, even sooner. They had to hurry. The best way to get the boy quiet again would be to save his father. If she didn’t, who knew what noises would wail out of him until she rectified a situation she wasn’t responsible for.
If the boy hadn’t put so much stress on him, if he hadn’t encouraged his father to make this bold escape, he likely would have had enough strength and energy to make it just the few more days that she needed them to.
From the supply room, she clicked open the glass box and took out the AED in its red box.
But when she placed it next to Rex Tennison’s still body and Wesley’s tear-streaked cheeks, it was clear that the boy had no idea what to do.
“Move,” Amita muttered, crouching down next to the father and preparing the AED. She placed one of the gray panels on his chest and the other on his side. Wires hanging between Tennison and the blue remote in Amita’s hands, she jammed her thumb down.
Tennison seized, his whole body flopping but then returning back to the stinking infection that he’d become. She didn’t want them to die. That had never been in the plan, but it could be an unintended consequence of all this. Another form of discipline dished out for her. That wouldn’t surprise Amita in the least, for God to punish her in this way.
“Please,” Wesley pleaded from the other side of Tennison’s body, spit flying out from between his lips and covering his father’s unmoving torso.
She pushed the button again. Tennison lurched up, down, and then still again.
Pressing two fingers into his neck, Amita shook her head and sighed.
“Again,” Wesley demanded.
“He’s gone,” Amita said flatly.
Wesley snatched the remote out of her hands. She pointed the gun at him but he didn’t even react to the barrel of the pistol, staring down at his father’s frozen eyes—blue and wide, the yellow reflection of the bathroom lights swirling in the placidity.
Another racketing of sobs and the boy pressed down on the remote. For the final time, Tennison’s body moved up and down like someone had plunged a knife into his chest and yanked him up from the hilt.
One heavy wet breath came out of him. His eyelids flickered, shadowing the reflections in his irises.
“Dad,” Wesley said again, flailing himself forward and wrapping his arms around his neck, crying into his chest.
It was surprising—this amount of grief and sadness. She sat back on her heels, staring at their embrace. This was not how the death of Amita’s father had gone. Mostly just arguing over wills and recounting the rare moments when their father hadn’t been off travelling for work.
“You have to let us go,” Wesley said, his speech muffled by his father’s torso. He lifted his head slightly to say, “We have to get him to a hospital. I’m not doing this again.”
“I can’t take you to the hospital,” Amita replied. “She can’t know that you’re here.”
“Who can’t?”
“Your mother.”
Wesley peeled himself off of his father, placing his hands on his legs, rubbing his palms against his pants.
