Taken (Erin Bowman)

floods the cell.
    Bozo chants louder. “Five red berries in a row, five red berries in a row.”
    “You there, kid,” a voice calls to me from the hallway. “They want you upstairs.”
    The guard steps into the cell and grabs my wrist. Bozo starts screaming, mostly to himself, “Five red berries in a row, five red berries, five red berries, berriesberriesberries!”
    “Hey!” the guard yells, kicking at the old man. His boot connects with the faded triangle on Bozo’s chest and sends him tumbling into the corner.
    The guard slams the door shut and tugs at my arm. “Shall we?” It’s quiet for a moment, and then the frantic tapping picks up again, followed by Bozo’s eerie melody. We turn a corner. I can no longer hear Bozo, but I know he is still singing—about berries and love, two things that will never, ever save him from that damp prison cell.
    Frank’s office is an oblong room that has so much decoration I am unable to tell what is functional and what is for show. The guard tells me to sit in one of the chairs that face a massive desk, its wood a deep red, and wait. I lean back to admire the ceiling as I do.
    I never knew ceilings could be so intricate. Square panels impressed with patterns fill the space above my head. In the center of the room is a massive, hanging object. It has perfectly spaced arms that each hold a candle, only the candles don’t flicker or melt. Instead, they transmit an even and unfading glow about the room.
    Everything is carefully positioned; a coatrack beside an immense window, a plant near rich purple curtains. Even the papers that are spread about the desk match up, their edges aligning beneath a stone weight. Artwork hangs on the walls, framed in materials that glisten under the light. One piece shows a family, two parents and two young boys, standing with their backs against a shiny black car. It’s not like the other art, which is clearly the result of a paintbrush on canvas. This image looks like the maybe-drawing of Harvey in Taem, stunningly authentic. The mother has an arm slung over the younger boy’s shoulder, while the second child eyes something of interest beyond the frame. It looks sunny where they stand, and windy, too, given the way the mother’s hair whips into her smile. I’m wondering if the father depicted is Frank when the doors behind me swing open.
    The man who enters is too old to be the parent in the maybe-drawing. His skin is softly leathered, as if he spent one day too many in the sun. Cheeks droop delicately into the corners of his mouth and his lips are chapped. The little hair he has is a brilliant white, wispy and thin about the tops of his ears. He is built lean but not very tall. Nothing about him indicates that he would be a man in charge. A man with answers.
    “Gray, right?” he says, smiling as he extends an arm toward me. Dozens of fine lines bloom around his lips. His voice is soft like cotton, smooth like butter. It instantly makes me confident that I might finally find the truth here. This man, with his unassuming face and organized papers, might have answers.
    But even still, I hesitate to shake his hand.
    “Ah, yes. Why trust me? We swiped you from the Outer Ring, explained nothing, threw you in a cell.” He puts a finger to his lips and sits. “I cannot apologize enough for how you were treated when you arrived here, Gray. You and your friend . . .”
    “Emma.”
    “Yes, Emma. You are the first we’ve been able to save, so our procedures are not quite ironed out. Marco reacted rashly to some very interesting information that you shared with him. I want you to know that if I could do it all over again, a jail cell would have absolutely no place in your entrance to Taem. None whatsoever.”
    He pours two cups of water from a clear pitcher and hands one to me. Not having had anything to drink since dawn, and not knowing how much water exists in Taem, even for someone like Frank, I take it and drink eagerly. Frank sips his with equal parts grace and formality. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes do.
    I put the water down. “So you’re Frank,” I say.
    “Dimitri Octavius Frank.” He extends his hand once more, and this time, I shake it. His fingers are long and slender, but his grip, firm.
    “Gray Weathersby.”
    “Ah, I see.” Again, a finger to the lip.
    “See what?”
    He puts his elbows on the desk, aligns his hands so that pinky is to pinky, ring finger to ring finger, and so on. They move in a steady wave