Pines

Daddy.”
    She could see Ben’s face glowing in the soft illumination of the nightlight beside his bed.
    Her words had hit him like a blast of sunlight, the fog of sleep fast dissolving away, an alertness crystallizing in his eyes.
    “Daddy’s alive?” he asked.
    She didn’t even know if she fully believed.
    What had Pilcher called it?
    A leap of faith.
    “Yes. Daddy’s alive. Come on. We need to get you dressed.”
    * * *
    Theresa and Ben sat down across from Pilcher.
    The man smiled at the young boy, extended his hand, and said, “My name is David. And you are?”
    “Ben.”
    They shook hands.
    “How old are you, Ben?”
    “Seven.”
    “Oh, very good. Your mother explained to you why I’m here?”
    “She said you were going to take us to my daddy.”
    “That’s right.” Pilcher picked up the tiny glass vials and handed them to Theresa. “It’s time,” he said. “Go ahead and pull out the stoppers. You have nothing to fear, either of you. It will take forty-five seconds once you’ve swallowed it. The effect will be sudden but not unpleasant. Give Ben the vial containing the smaller dose and then take yours.”
    She pinched the cork between her fingernails and uncapped the vials.
    A potent waft of some foreign chemical escaped into the air.
    Smelling it somehow made it real, jarred her out of the fugue state that had controlled her for the last several hours.
    “Wait,” she said.
    “What’s wrong?” Pilcher asked.
    What the hell was she thinking? Ethan would kill her. If it was only her, maybe, but how could she risk her son?
    “What’s wrong, Mama?”
    “We’re not doing this,” she said, putting the caps back in the vials and setting them on the coffee table.
    Pilcher stared at her across the table. “You’re absolutely sure about this?”
    “Yes. I...I just can’t.”
    “I understand.” Pilcher gathered up the vials.
    As he stood, Theresa looked at Ben, tears shimmering in the boy’s eyes. “You go on up to bed.”
    “But I want to see Daddy.”
    “We’ll talk about this later. Go on.” Theresa turned back to Pilcher. “I’m sorry—”
    The word stuck in her throat.
    Pilcher held a clear oxygen mask to his face with a thin supply tube snaking down into his jacket. In his other hand, he held a small aerosol canister.
    She said, “No, please—”
    A blast of fine mist exploded out of the nozzle.
    Theresa tried not to breathe, but already she could taste it on the tip of her tongue—liquid metal tinged with sweetness. The mist clung to her skin. She felt her pores ingesting it. It was in her mouth, far colder than room temperature, like a line of liquid nitrogen trailing down her throat.
    She wrapped her arms around Ben and tried to stand, but she had no legs.
    The dishwasher had stopped and the house stood absolutely silent save for the rain drumming on the roof.
    Pilcher said, “You’re going to serve a more valuable purpose than you could ever conceive of.”
    Theresa tried to ask him what he meant, but her mouth seemed to freeze.
    All the color drained from the room—everything disintegrating into varying shades of gray—and she could feel an unstoppable heaviness tugging her eyelids down.
    Already, Ben’s little body had gone slack, his torso fallen across her lap, and she stared up at Pilcher, who was now smiling down at her through the oxygen mask and fading toward darkness along with everything else.
    Pilcher took a walkie-talkie out of his coat and spoke into the receiver.
    “Arnold, Pam, I’m ready for you.”

CHAPTER 7
    “Ethan, I need you to relax. Do you hear me? Stop struggling.”
    Through the fog, Ethan recognized the voice—the psychiatrist.
    He fought to open his eyes, but the effort produced only slits of light.
    Jenkins peered down at him through those wire-rimmed glasses, and Ethan tried to move his arms again, but they were either broken or locked down.
    “Your wrists have been handcuffed to the railing on your bed,” Jenkins said. “Sheriff’s orders. Don’t be alarmed, but you’re having a severe dissociative episode.”
    Ethan opened his mouth, instantly felt the dryness of his tongue and lips like they’d been scorched by a desert heat.
    “What does that mean?” Ethan asked.
    “It means you’re having a breakdown in memory, awareness, even identity. The real concern here is that the car accident triggered it and that you’re having these symptoms because your brain is bleeding. They’re getting ready to roll you into