White Space Season 2

their father’s office was the one place in all the grounds that was 100 percent off-limits.
    “Father!” Jon yelled, his frustration growing into anger at being ignored.
    He heard a sound, then turned to see Mrs. Rasmussen standing behind him.
    “Trouble?”
    Jon turned to her. “Are you sure he’s here?”
    “Positive. He couldn’t have left. No one came down the hallway. I’ve been keeping an eye out for you, and would have seen him leave if he had. The door definitely hasn’t opened.”
    “No way he could’ve snuck out?” Jon asked, as though she might be senile.
    Mrs. Rasmussen shook her head no, then set her hand on Jon’s arm and spoke in a nervous whisper. “Maybe he wants to be alone?”
    “Bullshit,” Jon said. “Father!”
    He turned to Mrs. Rasmussen. “Would you mind leaving? I’d like to take care of this myself.”
    Mrs. Rasmussen swallowed, smiled, then turned and walked down the hallway toward the foyer. Jon could feel how much she hated what he was about to do, but they both knew there was no way of stopping him.
    He would figure out the security code.
    Jon started punching every combination he could think of into the keypad which displayed a full set of both numbers and letters, but nothing worked. Every attempt either preceded or followed a sharp punch or kick to the door, along with a bellow as Jon hollered for his father.
    Finally, on a whim, he found four letters that worked.
    EMMA.
    Jon’s daughter. Blake’s granddaughter.
    When did he start caring about the offspring he was trying to hide?
    The alloy door to his father’s office whooshed open.
    Jon stepped inside. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected, but what he saw wasn’t it. He imagined that his father’s office would be large, with many monitors and bleeding edge technology. Instead, the room was tiny. Almost a closet. A single glass monitor ran the length of the wall, installed above a long desk. Blake’s tablet was on the desk along with his cell. His father was nowhere.
    He never leaves his phone.
    Suddenly, Jon felt like he wasn’t alone, like his father was nearby, maybe even watching. A chill ran through him as he looked around, heart racing.
    Jon spotted a single photo sticking out from beneath his father’s tablet, then pulled it loose from beneath the tablet and stared at the photo, confused. It looked like Emma’s most recent school photo.
    What the hell?

    * * * *

EPILOGUE

    Sarah woke to the doctor with blond hair holding a small paper cup filled with pills.
    “Take these,” he said.
    “I don’t want to,” Sarah said, her voice groggy and head full of fuzz. She tried thinking about how long it had been since she had woken from the dead.
    A week? Two weeks? It was hard to tell.
    The doctors kept coming into the room and handing her pills. Sometimes they gave her capsules which they said were like food. Other times, water. They said the medicine was for healing her insides, but all they did, so far as Sarah could tell, was make her sleep, for what seemed like longer each time.
    “I can give you an injection if you prefer,” the man offered, without a trace of malice or threat in his voice.
    “Where am I?” she asked.
    “You know I can’t tell you that.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Sarah said. She’d seen three doctors at her count, two men and one woman, and they all played the same silence game, no matter the variety of her questions or order asked.
    Each time Sarah heard some variant of, “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”
    “Please,” she begged. “Tell me something .”
    The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
    Sarah lost it.
    “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” she screamed. “Why are you doing this? Why even save me? Why take care of me if you’re going to keep me locked up? My family must be worried sick! Please, let me talk to them.”
    Her words were garbled in sobs. The doctor’s face, an emotionless mask thus far, started to crack. Sarah was certain she saw a look of concern furrow his brow. She breathed slowly, trying to regain her composure, feeling if she could find the right approach or appeal, the doctor might help her.
    “Please,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Just tell me something. ”
    The doctor, whose name Sarah didn’t know, even though she had asked more times than she could count, looked at her with eyes so sad they almost seemed anguished.
    “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. But I promise I’ll find someone who can give you