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Copyrightinfringementisagainstthelaw.Ifyoubelievethecopyofthise-bookyouarereadinginfringesontheauthor’scopyright,pleasenotifythepublisherat:us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

ToJanciPatterson.WhenIwasreadytothrowthisbookaway,sheconvincedmeitwasworthsaving,andthensheshowedmehowtosaveit.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Aswithallnovels,thisoneowesagreatdealtoagreatmanypeople.Firstaremyprofessionalaccomplices:myagent,SaraCrowe;myeditor,MosheFeder;myin-houseadvocate,PaulStevens;andmypublicist,AlexisSaarela.Withouttheirworkonthisandallofmypreviousnovels,TheHollowCitywouldstillbeapoorlywrittenfileonmyharddrive.Great thanks also go to my writing group and various other readers, who

helpedshepherdtheearlyversionsofthisbookfrom“Dan’sweirdimagination”to“somethingpeopleactuallywanttoread.”Innoparticularorder:BrandonandEmily Sanderson, Peter and Karen Ahlstrom, Ben and Danielle Olsen, AlanLayton,EthanSkarstedt,KaylynnZobell,JanciPatterson,SteveDiamond,NickDianatkhah,WillGroberg,andRobWells.Special thanksgotoDawnWells,mywonderfulwifeandthebestsupportI

couldeveraskfor,andtoPhilipK.Dick,whoIgaveuptryingtoemulatebutwhocontinues to inspireme.When theworldmakessense it’sbecauseofher,andwhenitdoesn’tIthinkofhim.

CONTENTS

TitlePageDedication

AcknowledgmentsEpigraph

PrologueChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17

Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Epilogue

TorBooksbyDanWellsAbouttheAuthor

Copyright

Ohdreadfulisthecheck—intensetheagony—Whentheearbeginstohear,andtheeyebeginstosee;Whenthepulsebeginstothrob,thebraintothinkagain;Thesoultofeeltheflesh,andthefleshtofeelthechain.

—EMILYBRONTË,“ThePrisoner”

PROLOGUE

AGENTLEONARDKNELTDOWNbythebody,carefullyliftinghiscoatupoutoftheblood.“Doweknowhisnameyet?”AgentChushookhishead.“NametagsaysWoods,butChemComhasalotof

janitors and the guywho found him didn’t recognize the name. Visual ID is,obviously, impossible.”He gestured at the police officer standing beside him.“ChicagoPDisinterviewingthenightwatchman,we’rehopingheknows.”Leonardsurveyedthebodycarefully:twobulletholesinthechest,traumato

thebackof thehead,andnothingbuta shattered,bloodymesswhere the faceshouldbe.Justlikealltheothers.Hepulledonarubbergloveandtouchedtheheadcarefully,rollingituprightforabetterviewofthewound.“Thisdefinitelylookslikeourguy,”saidLeonard,releasingtheheadbackintoplace.Heprobedthecorpse’sbloodstainedcoverallswithaglovedfinger,andcockedhisheadinsurprisewhenhefoundaholeinthesleeve.“What’sthis?”AgentChucroucheddowntolookoverhisshoulder,andLeonardopenedthe

tear.Therewasmorebloodinside.“He’sgotawoundonhisarm,”saidLeonard.“Probablythesameslashthat

openedthesleeve.”Churaisedaneyebrow.“Cool.”Theofficerbehindthemclearedhisthroat.“Excuseme?”“Sorry,”saidChu,“I’mnottryingtobeinsensitive,it’sjustthat…well,the

RedLineKiller’sbeenvirtuallyuntrackablesofar.He’stoocareful.Noneofhisvictimshaveeverhadthechancetofightbackbefore,butthesekindsofwounds—knifecutsontheforearms—areprobablydefensive,whichmeanshesawtheattackercoming.”Heshrugged.“Probably.”

“That’sanawfullotofprobablies,”saidtheofficer.Agent Leonard stepped over the body to examine the other arm. “Yeah,

similarthingoverhere.Victimalmostlostafinger.”HelookedupatChu.“Thisguydefinitelyfoughtback.”Chu lookeddown the hallway, taking stock of the angles. “This cornerwas

probablytheambushpoint—victimcomesaroundtheedge,RedLine’swaitingwithagun,boom.Twointhechest,thengotoworkontheface,oratleastweassume that was the plan. That’s how he’s done all the others.Why didn’t itworkthistime?”Leonard peeled off his gloves. “The defensive wounds would come first,

whichmeanstheknifehitbeforethegun.Maybehecouldn’tpullitoutintime?”“Butifhewaslyinginwaithewouldhavehaditoutalready,”saidChu.He

walked the few steps to the end of the hall, his shoes tapping lightly on theconcretefloor.“See?Myfootstepswereaudible,andit’snotevenquietinhere.In themiddleof thenight,without awhole forensics team in thebackground,theywouldhavebeenprettyloud.”“So the victim comes this way,” said Leonard, walking toward Chu,

“approaches the corner, and the Red Line Killer lashes out with a knife; thevictimfightshimoff,runsbackthewayhecame.…”Hepaused,lookingatthefloor.“Exceptthere’snobloodhere,onlybackbythebody.”“Andtheshotsareinthechest,”saidChu,“nottheback.We’regoingtoneed

thewholeteaminheretofigureouthowthisfightwentdown—kinetics,bloodsplatter,everybody.”“Oryoucouldjustasktherent-a-cop,”saidthepoliceman,pointingdownthe

hall.“LookslikeChemComhassecuritycameras.”ChuandLeonard lookedwherehewaspointing, followinghiseye-line toa

smallglassbubbleonthefarwall.“You’ve got to be kiddingme,” said Leonard. “He’s never been on camera

before.”“Youthinkthecameraworks?”askedChu.“Thebodywasfoundbyanother

janitor,notasecurityteamwatchingonamonitor.”“Thishallwaylookslikeit’sjuststorage,”saidthepoliceman,glancingatthe

wide,evenlyspaceddoorways.“Thecamerasprobablydon’tevengo toa live

feed,justaharddrivesomewheretokeeparecordofwho’sbeeninandout.”“Thisishuge,”saidLeonard.“We’veneverevencaughtaglimpseofthisguy

before—he’stoocareful.Ifwe’vegothimonfilm…Thisishuge.”Chunoddedandstartedoffdownthehallway.“Thenlet’sstoptalkingaboutit

andfindthetapes.”The night watchman was in the main ChemCom lobby with the remaining

janitors,givingstatementstothelocalpolice.ChuandLeonardlistenedin—themanknewnothing,orclaimedto—andthenwalkedhimintothesecurityofficetolookatthetapes.“When do you think it happened?” the watchman asked, pulling up the

securityfootage.“Aroundoneo’clock,one-fifteen,”saidLeonard.“Justplaythewholethingonfast-forward,”saidChu,“andstopwhenyousee

people.”Themannodded,loadedthefile,andthelong,emptyhallwayappearedonthe

screen in black and white. He clicked fast-forward and the time code in thecorner started racing, but nothing else changed. Theman accelerated the fast-forward,thenagain,untilsuddenlyadarkshapeshotacrossthescreeninablurand exploded in a flash of light. The three men swore in unison. The imagecollapsedintofuzzysnow,asifthesignalhadbeencompletelylost.“Back it up,” said Leonard, peering closely at the screen. The watchman

reversedthevideo,foundthejanitor’sfirstentrance,andhitplay.Hepointedatthetimecode.“One-thirteen.Youguysaregood.”“Quiet,”saidChu.Therewasaburstofstaticonthescreen,asifthesignaldiedandcameback

justforaninstant,andthenthejanitorcameintoviewbeneathit,walkingtowardthefarcorner.Hestoppedatadoor,fiddledwiththelock,thencontinuedon.“That’sBrandonallright,”saidthewatchman.“Youknowhim?”askedLeonard.“Notverywell,”saidthewatchman.“He’snotexactlyatalkativeguy,butI’m

theonethathastocheckhimineverynight.Name’sBrandonWoods,lives…outsidethecitysomewhere.”

LeonardandChuglancedateachother,thenlookedbackatthescreen.BrandonWoodscontinueddownthehall tothefarcorner,butjustbeforehe

reachedit,hestoppedabruptlyandclutchedhishead,asifhe’dcomedownwithasudden,unbearablemigraine.Hislipsmoved,buttherecordinghadnosound,and the imagewas too small tomake anythingout.He retreated several stepstowardthecamera,stillclutchinghisheadandscreaming.“Hasyourcompanydoneanyrecentdrugtesting?”askedAgentLeonard.“Onceayear,”saidthewatchman,“butit’sdifferentforeveryemployee,ona

randomizedschedule.YouthinkBrandon’sondrugs?”“Idon’tthinkanythingyet,”saidLeonard.“I’mjustcollectinginformation.”BrandonWood’s pain seemed to ease as hemoved backward, and just then

anotherfiguresteppedaroundthecorner—amanallinblack,askimaskpulledoverhisface,andaguninhishand.AgentLeonard’sbreathcaughtinhisthroat:thisisthemanwe’vebeenhunting.Heraisedtheguntofire,thejanitorsawhim,andsuddenlytheimageflickered—once,twice—andthespacebetweenWoodsandtheattackerseemedtoripple.Theattackerstaggeredback,droppingthegun,asiftheripplehadshovedhimagainstthefarwall.“WhatonEarth?”whisperedChu.The attacker staggered to his feet, reaching for his gun, but Woods was

runningtowardhimandhedidn’thavetime.Themanplantedhisfeet,bracingforimpact,andrightbeforeWoodsreachedhimajaggedboltoflightleaptoutbetween them, bridging the gap between the two bodies like an electrical arc.Themaninblackshookasitstruckhim,butshovedthejanitorawayandpulledalonghuntingknifefromasheathonhisbelt.Thejanitorregainedhisfooting,squaringoffagainsthisattacker,andonceagainthescreenflickeredandarippleof distortion flew across the hall—not directionally, like the first time, buteverywhere, emanating out from the janitor like awave. It struck the attackeralmost instantly, andhisbodyshookwith thecontact; a second later thewavereached the camera, the image exploded in light, and the feed collapsed oncemoreintostaticandsnow.Thethreemenstaredatthescreeninsilence.AfteralongmomentAgentChu

spoke.“Whatwasthat?”

“Well,”saidthewatchman,hesitating,“obviously,itwasajanitorshootingaserial killerwith hismind. That… that seemed pretty clear to everyone else,right?”AgentLeonardflippedopenhisbadgeandhelditinfrontofthewatchman’s

face.“I’mshowingyouthistoremindyouhowseriousIamwhenItellyouthateverythingyou’veseeninthisroomtonightisastatesecret.We’reconfiscatingthe file, the camera, and any and all backups thatmay exist. You do not sayanythingtoanybodyatanytime.AmIclear?”Thewatchmanswallowednervouslyandnoddedhishead.AgentChuleaned

forward,grabbedthemouse,andrewoundthevideo.Hefrozeitonanimageofthemaninblack,knifeinhand,crouchedattheendofthehall.Hestaredatthemanintently.Onthescreen,themanstaredback.

ONE

“WHOAREYOU?”I’minahospitalbed;Icantellbytherailsonthesides,andbythewhitecoats

onthepeoplegatheredaroundme.Theirheadsarehaloedbybrightfluorescentlights,stillindistinctasIstruggletowakeup.There’saneedleinmyelbow,anIVtubereachingoutbehindme.Ifeelnauseousandslow,andthelightburnsmyeyes.HowdidIgethere?Where’sLucy?“You’reawake,”saysoneofthemen,“good,good.Yougaveusquiteascare,

Mr.Shipman.”Heknowsmyname.Istareattheman,forcingmyeyestofocus.He’solder,

sixtiesmaybe, in a long,white hospital coat. Two othermen and onewomanstandbyhim,probablyalsodoctors,pressedaroundmybed.There’saguardbythedoor—aguard?Orjustanorderly?Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.MythroatisdryandIstruggletotalk.“Whydon’tIremembercominghere?”“My name is Dr. Murray,” he says. “You had a fall—do you remember

falling?”Do I remember anything? I remember hiding out, and then … a chase?

Someonefoundme.Yes,I’msureofit;Irememberrunning.Andtherewasanemptycity, full of emptyhouses, andadeep,darkhole, like awell or amineshaft.ThepeopleIwasrunningfromwerebad—thatmuchIknow.Didtheycatch

me?Arethesedoctorspartofit?Islowdownandtrytothink.“Where’sLucy?”“Who?”“Lucy,mygirlfriend,shewaswithmeinthe…wherewasI?”“Whatdoyouremember?”

“Irememberapit,”Isayslowly,watchingtheirfaces.“Ifelldownapit.”Dr.Murrayfrowns;hethinksI’mwrong.AmI?ButIrememberapit,andhe

saidIhadfallen,and…Myheadaches—notjustmyhead,mymindaches.Dr.Murrayleafsthroughaslimfolder,holdingupapagetoreadtheonebelowit.“Youfell,orjumped,outofawindow.Doyourememberthat?”Isaynothing,tryingtoremember.Think,Michael,think!“Wewereworried you’d hurt yourself,” says one of the other doctors, “but

nothing’sbroken.”“Ifhe’slosthismemory,”saysthewoman,“hemighthavehithisheadharder

thanwethought.”Iscanmyeyesaroundtheroom,tryingtogetabettersenseofwhereIam—a

regularhospitalroom,withcabinetsandcurtainsandhandsanitizers liningthewalls.NocomputersthatIcansee.Good.“Wewouldhave seenmoredamage tohishead,” says anotherdoctor. “The

abrasionsweregroupedonhis legsandarms—he landedaboutaswellasyoucouldhopeto.”“Mr.Shipman,”saysDr.Murray,catchingmyeyeandsmiling.“Michael.Can

youtelluswhereyou’vebeenforthepasttwoweeks?”I frown, my suspicions rising. I’d been trying to disappear, and I think I

thoughtIhad,butnowI’minhere,surroundedbypryingeyesandequipment.Ishiftmylegsimperceptibly,testingforrestraintsunderthecovers.Itdoesn’tfeellikethey’vetiedmedown.Theymightjustbenormaldoctors—theymightnotbepartofthePlan.Justhelpfuldoctorswhodon’tknowwhoIamorwho’safterme.MaybeIcanstillgetaway.MaybeIcan,butnotwithfivepeoplebetweenmeandthedoor.Ineedtotake

mytime.“We’re only trying to help you, Michael.” The doctor smiles again. They

alwayssmiletoomuch.“Onceweknewwhoyouwereandwelookedupyourfile,well,youcanimaginethatwestartedtowonder.”Istareathim,myeyescold.SotheydoknowwhoIam,oratleastpartofit.I

starttotenseup,butIforcemyselftocalmdown.JustbecausetheyknowwhoIam,thatstilldoesn’tmeantheyknowaboutthePlan.“No,”Isayfirmly,“Ican’timagine.”ThemenIwasrunningfromhadbeenwatchingmeforyears—ifthey

gave the doctors their file, they’ll know everything aboutme. I shiftmy legsagain,bracingmyselftoboltforthedoorifIhavetomakeamove.“Whatdoesthefilesay?”He raises the folder in his hands, an oldmanila folderwith a curling green

stickeron the tab.“Standard things,”he says.“Medicalhistory,hospital stays,psychologicalevaluations—”“Wait,”Isay.“Isthatit?It’sjustamedicalhistory?”Dr.Murraynods.“Whatelsewoulditbe?”“Nothing.”So theydon’thave the real file, just the fakeone from thestate.

That’sgood,butitcouldcauseproblemsofitsown.“Noneofthatstuffmatters.”Thedoctorglancesatthemanbesidehim.“We’redoctors,Michael,itmatters

agreatdealtous.”“Exceptthatit’sallfalse,”Isay.IknowIcantrustthemnow,buthowcanI

explainwhat’sgoingon?“Thestatefilewascreated…”ItwascreatedbyThem,by the people who’ve been following me. Except I’m too smart to tell thedoctorsatruththey’llneverbelieve.Ishakemyhead.“Itwascreatedasajoke,”Isay.“Itdoesn’tmeananything.”Dr. Murray nods again. “I see.” He flips to a page in the file. “Ongoing

treatment for depression and generalized anxiety disorder.”He turns the page.“TwoweeksinPowellPsychiatricHospital,fourteenmonthsago.”Heturnsthepage.“MultipleprescriptionsforKlonopin,paidforbystatewelfare.”Helooksup.“Yousaythisisallpartofajoke?”HowamIsupposedtoexplainthistohimwithoutlookingcrazy?Iclosemy

eyes,feelingtheearlyfluttersofanervouspanic.Irollmyhandsintofistsandtakeadeepbreath:it’sokay.They’renotpartofthePlan.Theydon’tevenhavemetieddown.IcanprobablywalkrightoutofhereifIcanjustfindawaytodefusetheirsuspicions.Iglancearoundagain;nocomputers,andtheTV’soff.Imightbeokay.“It’sjustthe…statedoctors,”Isay.“Youneedtotalktomypersonaldoctor,

myfamilypractitioner.Dr.AmbroseVanek.Hecanstraightenthisout.”“We’ll contact him right away,” saysMurray. He nods to one of the other

doctors,whomakesanoteonhispadandstepsoutoftheroom.“I’mafraidhisinformationwasn’tincludedinyourreportorwewouldhavecalledhimalready.

We’ve called the only number on here, someone named L. Briggs, but wehaven’tbeenabletoreachher.IsthatyourfriendLucy?”“She’smygirlfriend,”Isayagain,tryingtolookhelpful.HaveTheygottento

heryet?DoIevendaredragherintothis?“I’mafraidIdon’tknowhernumber.”Dr. Murray raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know your girlfriend’s phone

number?”“Idon’tusephones.”“Ah.”Henodsandmakesanote.“Isthereanyoneelsewecancontact?”“No.”Hewavesthefolderslightly.“Thissaysyoulivewithyourfather.”“Yeah,butdon’tcallhim.”“Hissonisinthehospital;I’msurehe’dappreciateacall.”Iclenchmyfisttighter,tryingtobreatheevenly.“Just…please.”Dr.Murraypauses,thennods.“Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”Helooksatanother

sheetinhisfolder.“ItsaysherethatyourKlonopinwasprescribedbyDr.Little,afteryourstayatPowelllastyear.Haveyoubeentakingyourpills,Michael?”Inod.“Ofcourse,Doctor.”It’salie—Ifillmyprescriptioneveryfewweeks,

justsonooneasksquestions,butIhaven’ttakenitinmonths.I’mnotconvincedthepillsarepartofthePlan,butI’mnottakinganychances.“Excellent,” says Murray again, but I can see his smile falter. He doesn’t

believeme.Iscrambletofindsomethingelsetosoothehim—what’sinthatfile?ItprobablymentionsmyjobatMueller’s;thestategotmethatjob.MaybeIcanconvincehimI’mnothingtoworryabout.“YousaidIwasn’t injured in thefall, right?”Ismile, trying to looknormal.

“Because I reallyneed togetback toworksoon—Mr.Mueller really reliesonme.” There’s no response, so I keep going. “You knowMueller’s Bakery, onLawrence?Bestdoughnutsinthecity,youknow.I’dbehappytosendyouaboxonceIgetbackthere.”IlikedworkingatMueller’s:nopunch-cardmachine,andnocomputers.“Yes,” says Dr. Murray, flipping to another page of the file, “it was Mr.

Muellerwhoreportedyoumissing.”Helooksup.“Itseemsyoudidn’tshowupforworkfornearlytwoweeksandhegotworried.Tellme,Michael,canyoutelluswhereyou’vebeenduringthelasttwoweeks?”

They got to Mueller. I’m nervous now, and I glance around again. Nomachines;theroommightbeclean.“Ineedtogo,please.”“Doyourememberwhereyou’vebeen?”Idon’t.Irackmybrain,tryingtorememberanythingIcan.Emptyhouses.A

dark hole. I can’t remember. I still feel nauseous, like I’m thinking throughsyrup.Did theydrugme? I lookaroundagain, trying toseewhat’sbehind thebed.“Iseverythingokay,Michael?”Iraiseuponmyarms,craningmyneckaroundtheedgeofthebed,andrecoil

almost instantly, like I’ve been struck. An IV stand looms over my shoulder,with a small black box just inches behindmy head. Red digital lines turn incirclesasclearliquiddripsslowlyintomyarm.Itrytojumpofftheothersideofthebed,butthedoctorsmovein,holdingme

inplace.“Easy,Michael.What’swrong?”“Ihavetogetoutofhere,”Isay,gruntingthroughclenchedteeth.Mychest

feelspainfullytight.Iscrabbleatmyelbow,ripupthetape,andpullouttheIVneedlebeforetheycanstopme;painlancesthroughmyarm.“Frank!”saysDr.Murray,andthebigmanbythedoorrushesoverandgrabs

mebytheshoulders.“No!”Ishout,“No,it’snotlikethat,Ijustneedtogetoutofhere!”“Holdhimdown!”“What’s wrong, Michael?” asks Murray, leaning in over my face. “What

happened?”“Youdon’tunderstand!”Iplead.“Getitout,please,getitoutoftheroom.”“Getwhatout?”“TheIVstand,themonitor,whateveritis—getitout!”“Calmdown,Michael,you’vegottotelluswhat’swrong!”“Itoldyouwhat’swrong,getitoutofhere!”“Dr.Pine,” saysDr.Murray,noddingat the IVstand,and the femaledoctor

letsgoofmylegandwheelstheIVstandtothedoor,gatheringupthetrailingplastictubeasshemovesitintothehall.Ithelps,butIcanstillfeelitwatching

me.Dothedoctorsknow?Theycan’tknow—theycan’tknowortheywouldn’tbe inhere.Thatmeans they’refriends,butonly if Iact fast.Myfreakoutoverthe IV monitor was too much, and I’ve tipped Them my hand. The womancomesback.Wedon’thavelong.“Whatelseisinhere?”Iask,fallingbackagainstthepillowandallowingthe

orderly to hold me still. Don’t fight; they have to trust you. “Any othermonitors?Computers?Cellphones?”“Michael,weallhavecellphones,we’redoctors—”“Getthemout.”“Please,Michael,calmdown—”“Thisisimportant!”Iclosemyeyes,strugglingtoestimatethetime:howlong

have Ibeenhere?Threeminutessince Iwokeup,giveor takea fewseconds,andwhoknowshowlongIwasunconsciousbeforethat.HowlongdowehavebeforeTheygethere?Idon’thavetimeforgames,andtherearetoomanyofthemtofight.Ineedto

lay out the truth and hope for the best. I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell youeverything,butnotuntiltheroomisclean.Noelectronicdevicesofanykind.”Dr.Murraynods, but smugly, as if he’sheard it all before: I’m just another

crazyguy.“Whydoelectronicsfrightenyou,Michael?”It’sthesameaslastyear—thesamearrogantassumptionsthatlandedmeina

psychward.Oncethesystemdecidesyou’recrazy,there’snotmuchyoucandotofightit.Ishakemyhead.“Cellphonesoutside.”Murraylooksatmeforamoment,glancesattheothers,thenshrugs.“Okay,

Michael,whatevermakesyoucomfortable,butyouhavetotalktous.”“Hurry.”Itrynottosounddesperate.Murraygatherstheircellphones,takes

them to the hall, and amoment later he comes back. He opens hismouth tospeak,butIcuthimoff.“Listenverycarefully,allofyou,becauseIdon’tknowhowmuchtimewehave.I’mverysorryyougotdraggedintothis,butI’mbeingfollowedbysomeverydangerousmen,andIneedtogetoutofhereasfastasIpossiblycan.Theycantrackme—Theycantrackallofus—throughelectronics:computers,cellphones,TVs,radios,everything.Iknowthisishardtobelieve,butyou’vegottotrustme.Now,doesthatwindowopen?”Murrayisnoddingagain.“Easy,Michael,justtakeiteasy—”

“You don’t understand,” I say. “Theywill be here anyminute. Look, if thewindowdoesn’topenwecangetout through thehalls,butonly ifwestay faraway fromanythingdangerous.Back stairsusuallyhavecameras, sowecan’trisk—”“Please,Michael,nooneischasingyou.”“Yes they are,” I say, “They’re men, Faceless Men, and they can track us

through your cell phones, through computers, through anything that sends orreceivesasignal.They’renotlookingforyou,soyoudon’thavetocomewithme,justletmeslipoutthedoor—”“TheRedLine,”saysthewoman,andIglanceuptoseethatallfourdoctors

andtheorderlyhavebackedaway.Itrytolookbehindme.“Whatredline?”“Whenyousay‘faceless,’”asksthewoman,“doyoumean,like,thefacehas

been…destroyed?”“No.”Iturnbacktothem,watchingtheirfaces.Whataretheythinking?“No,

it’snothinglikethatatall.They’refaceless,literallyfaceless,noeyes,nonose,nomouth,nothing,just…blank.”Ipassmyhandovermyface,willingthemtounderstand.Theystareatmeamoment,andIdaretohope.“Thisismorethanjustanxietydisorder,”saysoneofthemen,andtheothers

nod.“I’mnotcrazy,”Isay.“Brain damage?” asks another doctor. They’re not even acknowledgingme

anymore.“Couldbe,”saysanother,“oritcouldbeallmental.Schizophrenia?”Thewomaneyesmewarily.“Therewasanotheronejustlastweek,youknow.

Wecan’ttakethechance.”Ifeelmyselfstarttotremble,thenervousvibrationonmychestmakingithard

tobreathe.“Please—whatareyoutalkingabout?”Dr.Murraystops,looksatmecarefully,thenwhispersinanotherdoctor’sear.

Theotherdoctorgoesintothehall,andMurraystepsforward.“Michael,Ineedtoaskyouaquestion,andIneedyoutoanswermeascarefullyandashonestlyas you can.” He pauses. I look at the door—where did the other doctor go?What,orwho,washesentfor?

Dr.Murraystaresatme,eyesintense.“Haveyouseenanybodies,anywhere,withthefacesdestroyed?”“Why do you keep asking that? Where would I have seen something like

that?”“Canyourememberwhereyou’vebeenforthelasttwoweeks?”“No,”Isay,“Ican’trememberanything!Tellmewhat’sgoingon!”Dr.Murray glances at the other doctors, then back at me. “Have you ever

heardoftheRedLineKiller?”Ifreeze.“Some.”I’veheardthename,butIdon’tknowmuch.Somekindof

serialkiller.Igetadeep,sinkingfeelinginmygut—notjustfromthename,butfromthefacesofthedoctorsastheywatchme.They’renervousandscared.They’rescaredofme.“Overthepasteightmonths,”saysDr.Murray,“theRedLinehaskillednearly

tenpeopleinandaroundChicago.Nobodyhasanyideawhoheis,buthisstoryhasbeenalloverthenews.Areyousureyou’veneverheardofhim?”“Idon’twatchTV,”Isay,glancingatthedarkenedsetonthewall.Canitsee

mewhileit’sturnedoff?“Whyareyouaskingmeaboutthis?Whatdoesithavetodowithme?”Andwhyareyousoscared?“Ifyou’dseenthenews,Michael,you’dknow:whentheRedLineKillerkills

someone,he…mutilatesthebodies.”Hefrownsandcontinues.“Hekillsthemandthenhedestroystheirfaces—skin,muscle,bones,everything.”And there it is.A killer on the loose, a tenuous link, and the floodgates of

suspicionbreakopeninatorrent.I’mstillthesameperson,butintheireyesI’vechanged—nolongerjustamanbroughtinforafall,butanunbalancedpsychowhomightbeamurderer.“Ihaven’tdoneanythingwrong,”Isaycarefully.“We’renotsayingyouhave.”“Youwouldn’thavebroughtthisupifyoudidn’tthinkitwasme.”Ihaveto

getoutnow.Ihavetorunbeforethisgoesanyfurther.“Wedon’tthinkanything,Michael,noone’saccusingyouofany—”Ileapupsuddenly,catchingthembysurprise,butIonlygethalfwayoutofthe

bedbeforetheorderlygrabsme;thedoctorsareonlyafewstepsbehind.Ifightlikeacagedanimal,kickingwildlywithmylegs,andfeelahorrifyingcrunchin

myfootasoneofthedoctorsgruntsandfallsbackward.They’rescreamingnow,callingdesperatelyfornursesandsedatives,andallIcanthinktodoisbitethearmwrappedtightlyacrossmychest.“Where’stheGeodon!”“Frank,dammit,holdhimdown!”Someone lets go and I struggle tomy feet, almost clear of the doctors, and

then suddenly my arm’s getting twisted around and my shoulder’s nearlypopping and I howl at the pain. My legs go limp and I whimper, all of myattentionfocuseddesperatelyonmyarm.The room has more people in it now, and I feel hands pickingme up and

positioningme back on the bed; there’s a sharp prick inmy arm, and I knowthey’vegivenmeashot.Asedative.Idon’thavelong.“Please,”Isay,“you’vegottogetmeoutofhere.I’mnotwhoyouthinkIam,

andThey’llbehereany…anyminute.”Imagesswirlinandoutofeachother,andIsquinttocatchthembeforetheyfade.“FindDr.Vanek,”saysoneofthem;Murray,Ithink.There’ssomethingonmy

arms,andI tryto lift themuptosee,but theywon’tmove.Myheadweighsaton,tentons,butIsteelmyselffortheeffortandraiseitup,justenoughtolookdownatmybody.“Thedrugsarehittingquickly—howmuchdidyougivehim?”“It’sjustthestandarddose—itshouldn’tworkthisfast.”“Hecanbarelymove.”Isquintagain,myheadasemptyasaballoon,mybodyslippingawaydowna

tunnel. I can feel it drawing out, stretching like putty, but there’s something Ihavetosee,someonestandinginthebackoftheroom.Ifightmywayoutofthetunnel,strugglingforjustoneglimpse,and—thereitis.Amanwithnoface.They’vefoundme.

TWO

IWAKEUPWITHASCREAM,suddenly,asifIwereneverasleepandtheFacelessManwasstillrightthere,comingforme.Heisgone,andtheroomisempty.“Whoa,”saysavoice,andIshoutagain.“Areyouokay?”“Who’sthere?”I’mstilldisoriented.Ilungeforward,lookingforthespeaker

—awoman—butthere’ssomethingonmyarmsandIstopshort,jerkedbackbyheavyleatherrestraints.“Calmdown,” she says. Is itLucy? “Just take it easy; looks likeyouhad a

nightmare or something.” She steps into my view and she’s not Lucy; she’syoung, about the same age, butwearing a sort of suit jacket that Lucywouldneverwear. “My name isKelly Fischer, I’m a reporterwith theSun. I didn’tmeantostartleyou.”“Whatdoyouwant?”Islowlygrowmorecentered,asifmyhigherfunctions

areonlyjustnowwakingup.Itestmyrestraintssubtly;mylegsaretieddownasfirmlyasmyarms,withjustafewinchesofgiveinanydirection.TheTVisstilloff,butitloomsovertheroomlikeadarkenedeye.“I’mwritingapieceon theRedLineKiller,”says thewoman.“Iheardyou

mightknowsomething,andIthoughtmaybeIcouldaskyousomequestions.”Ifreeze.HowdoessheknowwhoIam?Howdoessheknowanythingabout

me?Istudyhercarefully,lookingforclues:shehasaface,foronething,andalargehandbagslungcarefullyoverhershoulder.IssheoneofThem?DoessheworkforThem?Inarrowmyeyes.“Howdidyoufindme?”“Oneofthenursesisafriendofmine;shetipsmeoffwhenbigstoriescome

through.”

“I’mnotabigstory.”“You’re under investigation in connection with the Red Line killings,” she

says.“Great.” I throwmyhandsup, or try to, but the restraints stop themwith a

jerk.Iclosemyeyesandgrowlundermybreath.“Ineedtogetoutofhere.”“You’renota suspect,” shesays, shakingherhead,“orat leastyou’renota

suspectyet.IfyouwereI’dbebreakingthelawjustbeinghere.Asitis…”Sheglances at the door quickly, nervously. I look at it too, then back to her,realizationdawning.“You’renotsupposedtobehere,”Isay.“Icanhelpyou,”shesays,holdingoutherhandtoquietme.“Listen,justgive

metwominutes,andIcantrytokeepyououtofPowell.Idon’thavealotofpull,but—”“Powell?”Myeyesgowide.“They’resendingmebacktoPowell?”“You didn’t know?” She glances at the door again, then bolts for the back

corner. “Someone’s coming—don’t say anything, I’m begging you.” She jogsthrough the bathroomdoor,without even time to close it before the hall dooropensandanursecomesin—thebigorderlyfrombefore,theonenamedFrank.“Thought I heard you scream,” he says.He glances at thewall behindme.

“You have a nice nap?” There’s a bandage on his forearm that wasn’t therebefore.Heseesmelookingatitandraiseshiseyebrow,allhumorgonefromhisfaceandvoice.“Lookingforarepeat?YoubitemeagainandIwillmakeyouregretit.”“I bit you?” The details of the fight are hazy, but I remember kicking

someone.“Inthe…earlier,wheneveryonetackledme?”“When you tried to escape,” says Frank. “You bit me and you broke Dr.

Sardinha’snose.”“Ididn’tmeanto.”“Youguysneverdo.”“Whatdoyoumean,‘youguys?’”“Imean‘mentallydivergent,’”saysFrank.“Well,technicallyImean‘crazy,’

butI’mrequiredtosay‘mentallydivergent’infrontofthecrazypeople.Makesyoufeelbetter.”

“It’snotworking.”“I get that a lot.”He leans forward, restinghis forearmson thebed railing.

“So listen, you’re gone in a few hours, and I don’twant any trouble betweennowandthen,solet’smakeatruce,okay?”“I’mnotcrazy.”“You stop screaming,” he says, ignoring me, “and whatever else you were

doinginhere,andI’llleaveyoualone.”“Youcan’tletthemtakeme.”“I’m not letting them, I’m helping them. I’m doing everything I can to

expeditetheprocess.”“But I’m not crazy!” I say again, my voice rising. “I have depression and

somekindofanxietydisorder—youcan’tlockmeupforeitheroneofthose.”“You’vebeenupgraded toschizophrenia,”saysFrank,“mostly thanks to the

evilfacemonstersorwhateveryousaidwaschasingyou.Idon’tremember—intwomorehoursitwon’tbemyproblemanymore.”I fall back into the pillow, shocked. I’ve heard of schizophrenia before, in

passing,andnoneofitwasgood;thediagnosisfallslikeasentenceofexecution.I glance at the bathroom door; if Frank won’t help me escape, maybe the

reporterwill.“Notrouble,”Isay,lookingbackathim.“Idon’tbotheryou,youdon’tbotherme.”Hestops.“Youguysusuallyputupmoreofafight.Youplanningsomething?”“Yes,” I say,nodding firmly. “Theevil facemonsters aregoing to cut these

restraintsoffandcarrymeawayintheirmagicalflyingcar.”Frankstaresatmeamoment, thenshakeshisheadand turns to thedoor.“I

don’tknowwhyIeventalktoyoupeople.”Hestopsbythedoorandshootsmea final look. “Nonoise,no funny stuff, and in twohourswe’llbeoutof eachother’swayforever.”Inod.Heclosesthedoorandwalksaway.Thewomanpeeksoutofthebathroom.“He’skindofanasshat,isn’the?”“Yousaidyoucouldhelp,”Isay,andtugonmyarmrestraints.“Canyouget

meoutofthesethings?”“Whoa,” she says, stepping into the room.“Thatwould reallybecrossinga

line.”

“Youdon’tunderstand,”Isay.“Thishospital,andapparentlyPowell,arerunby…”Andnowwe’rebacktothesameoldproblem—ifItellanyonethetruth,Isoundcompletelycrazy.It’sthetrickiestpartoftheFacelessMen’sPlan,tohidethemselves sowell from theworld that noonewill everbelieve they exist. “Ihavetogetoutofhere.”“Letmeaskyouafewquestionsfirst,”shesays,“andthenI’llseewhatIcan

doabouttherestraints,okay?”“Doyoupromise?”“Ican’tpromiseI’llgetyouout,butIpromisetolookintoit.You’reasking

metobreakthelaw,Michael;you’regoingtohavetotrustmefirst.”Ilookatthedoortothehallway,thenupattheTV.“Fine,”Isay,“butmakeit

quick.”“Great.”Shesmilesandopensherhandbag,pullingoutasmallblackdevice.I

drawbackasfarasIcanandshakemyhead.“Getridofthat.”“It’smydigitalrecorder,”shesays.“I’mjustrecordingtheinterview.”“No,”Isaymorefirmly,pressingmyselfasfarbackintothepillowsasIcan.

“Putitinthehall,orbackintheotherroom,butitcan’tbeinhere.”She looks at it, then atme, then shrugs andwalks into the bathroom. “I’m

leavingitonthesink,”shesays,“isthatokay?”“Yes.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm back down. It’s just a

recorder—itmightnotsendasignalatall.“Ifyou’vegotacellphone,leavethatintheretoo.”“All right,”shesays,walkingback inwithanotebookandapen.“Let’sget

started. The doctors here suspect that youmay havewitnessed a crime scenerelatedtotheRedLinekillings.Canyoudescribethatsceneforme,please?”“Idon’trememberanythinglikethat.”Shefrowns.“Buttheysaidyouweretalkingaboutit.”“I was talking about … something else,” I say. I don’t dare mention the

FacelessMen;Ineedhertobelieveme,notthinkI’mcrazy.“Imayhaveseensomething, but I don’t remember a crime scene. Certainly not any bodies oranythinglikethat.”“Okay,” she says slowly, tapping her pen on the notebook. “If you don’t

rememberacrimescene,maybeyouremembersomethingelse?Theyobviouslythinkyousawsomethingortheywouldn’thavecalledthepolice.”“Theycalledthepolice?”“Nothing fancy, just a tip.My source placed the call, that’s how I knew to

comehere.Let’strytofigurethisout.Itakeityoulostsomememory?”“Abouttwoweeks,”Isay,nodding.“Iwasinsomekindofafall.”“Wereyoupushed?”“Idon’tremember.”“Wherewereyou?”“Idon’tremember.”“You’renotbeingveryhelpful.”“Iremembersomekindofa…hollowcity,”Isay.“Streetsfullofhouseswith

nobodyinthem,likeanemptyskeletonafterallthefleshhasgoneaway.”Shejotsitdown.“That’screepy,butit’sastart.Canyourememberwhoyou

werewith?”“Idon’t think Iwaswithanybody.MaybeLucy—definitelyLucy,because I

can’t imaginegoingawaywithouther.” I lookup, intenseandsincere. “We’regoing togetaway—get toasmall townsomewhere,maybea farm. I thinkI’dlike to liveona farm.Thehospital couldn’t findher, though, so Idon’tknowwhere she is.” For the first time it occurs to me that something might havehappenedtoher,andmystomachclenchesintoaknot.“You’vegottofindher:LucyBriggs.”“Girlfriend?”Inod. “Idon’t knowherphonenumber, but sheworks in aGreekplaceon

GrandAvenue.Ithinksomethingmayhavehappenedtoher.”“I’llfindher.Anyoneelse?”“NooneIcanthinkof.”“Have you recently associated with any members of the Children of the

Earth?”My heart stops beating—the entire world seems to freeze—and then

everything snaps back into place. I stare at her carefully, cautiously, suddenlywary.“Whatdoyouknow?”Shelooksup,eyeswide.“What’swrong?”

“WhyareyouaskingabouttheChildrenoftheEarth?”Shemakesanoteonherpad.“Isthataproblem?”“How much do you know about me?” I demand. “What’s really going on

here?”“I…,” she stumbles over her words, brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t

knowanything,why?AreyouamemberoftheChildren?”“The Children of the Earth are amurder cult,” I say. “They kidnappedmy

motherwhileshewaspregnant,andwhenIwasborntheykilledher.Iwouldn’tassociatewiththemforanything.I’dkillthemfirst.”Herfacegoeswhite.“Youdidnotjustsaythat.”“WhatdotheChildrenoftheEarthhavetodowiththeRedLineKiller?”Shesucksinabreath.“Almostallofthevictimshavebeenmembers.”Icurse.“Someone is hunting down the Children of the Earth and cutting off their

faces,”shesays.“Someonewhohatesthemasmuchasyoudo.”“Sotheydosuspectme,”Isay,watchinghercarefully.“Yousaidtheydidn’t,

buttheydo.”“Well,yeah,now Iknowthat.”Sheclicksherpenanddrops it inherpurse,

foldinguphernotebookandshovingitinafter.“Icouldgetinsomuchtroubleforbeinghere.”“Youcan’tleave,”Isayquickly.“Youcan’tleavemewiththem.”“Listen,Michael.”Shestands,glancesatthedoor,thenstepstowardmeand

lowershervoice.“IpromisedI’dlookatgettingyououtofhere,andIwill—ifyou’reasinnocentasyousayI’lldoeverythingIcantogetyououtofhere.Butuntil thenyou’vegot tobecareful,okay?Andplease,don’t tell anyone Iwashere.I’ll trytovisityouatPowell,assoonasI’mallowedto,butplease—justkeepmeasecret,okay?”“Youpromiseyou’llcome?”“I’lldoeverythingIcan,butifyoutellanyoneIwashereIcouldgetcutoff

completely.”“Iwon’ttell.”“Thanks.”Shestepstothedoor,listenscarefully,thencracksitopenandslips

intothehall.

Isitinsilence,staringattheblankTV.Itstaresback.Ihearavoiceinthehall,loudandfamiliar,andlookanxiouslyatthedoor.Mylasthopehasarrived:Dr.Vanekishere.

THREE

DR. VANEK THROWSOPEN THE DOOR, nearly filling it with hisbulk.IallowmyselftohopethatImightbereleased,butheseemstosensemyoptimism,andfrownsandshakeshishead.“Youmadequiteasplashhere, theytellme.”Hegruntsslightlyashedrops

intothenearbychair.Hehasdarkhair,ringinghisfacewithadarkbeard,andtheframesofhisglasseslookthinandfragile.“Iwishyou’dhavecometoseeme sometime in the past six months—it’s one thing to get a call from thehospital announcing your long-lost patient has finally surfaced, and it’s quiteanother to learn that said patient has managed to injure two members of thehospitalstaff—oneofthem,Imightadd,theheadofthepsychward.Youdidnotmakeanyfriendswithyouroutburstyesterday,Iassureyouofthat.”“You’reinamood,”Itellhim.Dr.Vanekhasalwaysbeengruff,muchmore

sothananyoftheotherpsychiatristsI’vedealtwith.Someofthemweregreat;Ieven had a crush onmy old school counselor, a young, prettywoman namedBeth.She’stheonewhofirstdiagnosedmewithdepression.Shelovedherjob;lovedhelpingpeople.On theopposite endof the spectrum, sometimes I thinktheonlyreasonVanekgotintomedicinewastoshowoffhowsmartheis.“Didn’tIwarnyouaboutthis,Michael?”Vanekrubshisforeheadwiththick,

sausagelikefingers.“Didn’tItellyou,whenyoustartedmissingasessionhereandthere,thatalapseintreatmentormedicationcouldresultinaheighteningofyoursymptoms?”“Doyouhaveacellphone?”He sighs. “No, Michael, I never bring my cell phone to our sessions, you

knowthat.ThoughnowIunderstandthatyourdistastefortechnologyhasgrownsomenewandinterestingdimensions.TellmeabouttheseFacelessMen.”

“TheythinkIkilledthem.TheythinkI’mthis…RedLineKiller.”Vanekraiseshiseyebrow.“Wheredidyougetthatidea?”I open my mouth, but say nothing. I promised the reporter I wouldn’t say

anything.Ishrug.“Itjust…seemsobvious.”“Well,”saysVanek,nodding,“thatsavesmethetroubleofbreakingittoyou

gently.Ifwe’regoingtodoanythingaboutit, though,I thinkyououghttotellme where you’ve been for the last two weeks. The Red Line Killer killed ajanitorinanindustrialparklastweek,anditwouldbenicetobeabletoproveyouweresomewhereelse.”“Hiding,”Isay.Vanekhasapoorbedsidemanner,perhaps,buthe’snotdumb.

Hemightbeabletoseethetruth.“Youneedtogetmeoutofhere.Wecantalkaboutallofthisbackinyouroffice,orwhereveryouwant,butnothere.”“I’m not here to get you out,” he says, staring atme intently. “I’m here to

oversee your transfer and readmittance to Powell Psychiatric. Dr. Sardinha isrecommendinghighsecurity,intensivetherapy,andneuroleptics.”“Neuro…what?”“Antipsychoticmedication,”Vanekexplains.“You’renotjustaviolentpatient

anymore,Michael, you’re a violent, schizophrenic patient. That is not a goodcombinationintheeyesofourmedicalorlegalsystems.”“I’mnotcrazy.”“Please,Michael,weprefertheterm‘mentallydivergent.’”“Idon’thavemultiplepersonalities.”Vanek laughs, a rough sound, like a bark. “Double damnation on whoever

started that misconception. Schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiplepersonalities; itmeans thatyourbrainresponds tostimuli thatdon’texist.Youseeandhear things, like theseFacelessMenofyours, andyoubelieve things,likethisparanoidplanofpersecutionandsurveillance,thatarenotreal.”I sit up desperately, but the arm restraints stop me from leaning very far

forward.“I’mnotcrazy,”Isayquickly,“andI’mnotparanoid.”“Please,Michael,”hesays,peeringatmeoverthetopsofhisglasses.“You’ve

beenparanoidyourentirelife.That’sareasonableenoughreactionforsomeonewhowaskidnappedbeforehewasevenborn,but‘reasonable’and‘healthy’areverydifferentthings.”

“Thishasnothingtodowithmymother,”Isay,angryathimforbringingitup. “Now listen, you’ve got to believeme. The FacelessMen are real—therewasoneinherelastnight.Isawhim!”“Wellofcourseyousawhim,”saysVanek,“that’swhatIjustexplained—you

see imaginary things that your brain perceives as real. It’s called ahallucination.”“Itwasreal,”Iinsist.HowcanImakehimbelieveme?“Hewasasrealas…

asthatwall,asthechair;hewasasrealasyouandme.”“Reality,”saysVanek,frowning.Heleansforwardandgestureswithhishand.

“Think of it this way: the human brain does not have a direct connection toreality—not yours, not mine, not anyone’s. We can only perceive somethingafter it’s been filtered through our senses—our eyes, our ears, etc.—and thencommunicatedtoourbrain.Ourbraintakesthatinformationandreconstructsittocreatethemostaccuratepictureofrealitythatitcan.That’sgoodenoughformostofus,butschizophreniabreaksthesystem—thesignalfromyoursensestoyour brain gets corrupted somewhere along the line, sowhen your brain putstogether itspictureofreality, thatpicture is fullofextra,artificial information.Somepeoplehearvoices,othersseefacesorcolorsorotherthings.Putsimply,therealityyouperceiveisseparatefromtherealitythatactuallyexists.”“That’sridiculous,”Isay.“Mybraindoesn’tdothat.”“Everyone’sbraindoesittosomeextent—whatdoyouthinkadreamis?It’sa

false reality that your brain creates out of remembered stimuli, extrapolatingwherenecessarytofillinthegaps.Thedifference,ofcourse,isthatadreamisusuallyhealthy,whileahallucinationisnot.”I shakemy head. On top of being trapped, now I’m being disbelieved and

studiedandwhoknowswhatelse.Mychancesofescapeareslippingawaywitheverywordthatcomesoutofhismouth.“Thisis…”Idon’tknowwhattosay.“Thisisstupidandunfairand…illegal.”Itugonthearmrestraints.“Youcan’tsay I’m crazy just because I saw something you haven’t seen.What about…whataboutGod?CanyoulocksomeoneupforbelievinginGod?You’veneverseenhim,sohe’sprobablyjustahallucination,right?”“It’s times like these Iwish Ihadanassistant toexplain things sensitively,”

saysVanek.“Idon’thavethepatienceforit.”

“Obviously not,” I say, “or you wouldn’t have jumped straight from‘Michael’ssayingstrangethings’to‘Michael’sadelusionalpsychotic.’”“Itwasn’tmydiagnosis,Michael.”Hesighsandrubshisforeheadagain,his

eyesclosed.“ItwasDr.Sardinha’s.”“TheoneIkicked?TheysaidIbrokehisnose—nowonderhewantstolock

meup.”“Thank you for arriving at the point I started this conversation with ten

minutesago.”“Andhisdiagnosisdoesn’tseemsuspicioustoyou?”“Listen,Michael,it’smorethanjustyousayingstrangethings.Hallucinations

anddelusions are themost visible symptomsof schizophrenia, but they’renotthe most important. The big ones, the ones at the core of the disease, aredepression—whichyou’vehadforyears—and‘disorganizedbehavior,’whichisafancywayofsaying…well,ofdescribingthewayyou’vebeenlivingforthepastsixmonths:youstoppedtakingcareofyourself,youwanderaroundandgetlost,youdobizarrethingslikecarryfaucethandlesinyourpockets—”“Ididn’tdoanyofthat.”Heholdsupasmallmetallever—theknobfromabathroomsink.Irecognize

itinstantlyasmine,thoughIhavenoideawhereitcamefrom.“Thiswasinyourpocketwhenyouwereadmitted,thoughIsupposeit’snot

damninginitself.Shallweenumeratetheotherpointsonthelist?”Heticksoffhisfingersonebyone.“Youstoppedcomingtooursessions,youstoppedgoingtowork, you eventually stopped doing everything—the cops found you livingunderanoverpass.Youhaven’tshavedinmonths,youhaven’tbathedinweeks,andthepolicereportsuggeststhatyou’dbeenpissinginyourpantsfordays.”“Iwasbeingchased,”Isay,grittingmyteeth.“Weweretryingtogetoutof

town,andsometimes…sometimeshidingfromthebadguysrequiressacrifices.WhatelsewasIsupposedtodo?”“Howcanyoube sureyouwerehiding?”heasks. “Doyoueven remember

whereyouwere?Orwhyyouwentthere?”Ilookathimsilently,tryingdesperatelytorememberanythingaboutthelast

twoweeks,butallIgetarequicksnatches—meaninglessbitsofsightandsoundand smell that I can’t piece together into anything coherent. It’s like trying to

lookattheworldthroughadirtyglass,smearedandwarpedandblurry.Hesighs.“YouhadnomoneyandnoID;theonlythingyoudidhave,infact,

wasthewaterfaucet.”“I remember the faucet!” I say suddenly, shocked at my own outburst.

Excitement wells up inside of me—the first memory to return from the twomissing weeks. “I can’t remembermuch—I think something happened tomyhead—butIrememberthefaucethandle.Iwasdefendingmyself.”“You’reluckyyoudidn’thitacopwithit,oryou’dbeinevenmoretrouble

thanyouarenow.”“Not like that,”Isay.“Itwas tokeepthehotwater turnedoff.TheFaceless

Menhad trackedmedown,but theycouldn’tget tome through thewires liketheyusuallydid,sotheyfilledthewaterheaterwithcyanideinstead.Itookthefaucetsofftomakesureitcouldn’tgetout.”Vanek is watching me, stubby fingers folded across his round chest. “You

removedyourfather’sfaucethandles?Nowondertheyfoundyoulivingonthestreet.”“I…”Istop.He’sright—myfatherwouldneverhaveallowedit.Hewasnota

patientman.“Iwasn’tlivingthere.DidIgetkickedout?”“Whendidyouleaveyourfather’shouse?”“Twoweeksago, I think. I…I remember I tried to take theTVoutside, to

makethehousesafe.Ithinkhethrewafit.”“That sounds like him. And you.” Vanek pulls off his glasses and rubs his

eyes. “If your father cared half as much about his son as he does about histelevision,someofthisbehaviormighthavebeenreportedearlyenoughtomakeadifference.”“I got away from home,” I say, not really paying attention. “They had no

reasontopoisonmeunlessI’descapedfromthewebofelectronicsurveillance—andtheyweretryingtopoisonme,whichmeansI’ddoneit.I’dfoundaplacewithout anywires.” I laugh. “I think it scared them.”So little of the past fewdaysmadesensetome,butthisdid.TheFacelessMenwereonmytrail,andI’dalmostgottenaway.Itwas justachanceencounterwith thepolice thatgotmebackon their radar—whichmeans that if I canget away again, and avoid thepolicethistime,Icanescapecompletely.

Except Ican’t leavewithoutLucy.Are theyholdingherhostage tokeepmefromrunning?Whereisshe?“Listentoyourself,Michael,”saysVanek,leaningforward.“Inconsistencyis

oneofthebestwaystospotadelusion,solet’sconsider:firsttheFacelessMenaretrackingyou,andthenwhentheylosetrackofyoutheydecidetokillyouinthe most obtuse, convoluted way possible. How did they know which waterheater tospikewithcyanide if theydidn’tknowwhereyouwere?And if theydid know where you were, why not just plant more listening devices andcontinue observing you? And the biggest question of all: if they wanted youdead,whynotjustkillyououtright?Whybotherwithsucharoundaboutplan?”“Idon’tknow,”Isay.“IfIknewallthepiecesofthePlan,doyouthinkI’dbe

strappedtothishospitalbed?”Itugagainontherestraintsforemphasis.“Ihavebeenrunningfromthesepeople formonths.WhatdoIhave todo toconvinceyou?”“Whyaretheyobservingyou:ajobless,homelessnobody?”“Ihaveajob,”Ishootback.“Andahome,andagirlfriend,andeverything.I

haveanentirelife,andtheyaretryingtotakeitaway.”“You haven’t done anything important,” says Vanek. “You don’t know

anythingimportant.You’renothing.”“Ihavesomethingtheywant.”“Youhavenothing.”“But I do,” I say, “I know it. I think I’d found something, right when I

disappeared—athingoraplaceormaybeaperson.Somethingtheydidn’twantanyonetoeverfind,andIfoundit.Butnow…”Vanekleansforward.“Whereisit?”“Look,Idon’tknowwhyIcan’trememberanything,andIdon’tknowwhatI

have,butIknowthattheywantit,whichmeansthattheywantme.Theywantmemorethananythingintheworld.”Vaneksmiles.“Narcissism is theotherbestway tospotadelusion.” I try to

talk, but he stops me with his hand. “Paranoid schizophrenia involves,inherently, aheightenedbelief inyourown importance—that all of thesevast,hyperintelligent superorganizations have nothing better to do thanwatch yourTVandpoisonyourwaterheater.”

“Dr.Vanek,you’vegottobelieveme.Theywantmebecausethey’rescaredofme.I’mthekeyto theirwholePlan,orI foundthekeyto theirPlan,andtheydon’tdare letme loosebecause they think I’mgoing tostop them,but Idon’tcareanymore.Idon’tneedtostopthem,Ijustwanttogetaway.”Ipause.“LucyandIweregoingtogotoafarm.”“It’sareflectionofthefactthatyourrealityexistssolelyinyourmind,”says

Vanek,brushingpastmycommentsasiftheyweren’teventhere.“TheFacelessMendon’t have anyone better to spy on because, to them, no one else exists.You’reboththecenterandthecircumferenceoftheirentire,imaginaryworld.”“Stopsayingthat!”Myfaceishot,andIfeelrageboilinginsideme.Itakea

deepbreath,andrealizemyfistsareclenched.“Ifyou’renotgoingtohelpme,just get out of here.” If Vanek doesn’t believe me, and something horrible’shappenedtoLucy,who’sleft?Vanekstaresatmeforalongtime,watchingsilently.Finallyhenods.“You’re

right,”hesays.“Ican’tconvinceyouyourrealityisfalseanymorethanIcouldconvinceanyoneelseintheworld.That’swhat’sgoingtomakethissodifficulttotreat.”“Soletmego.”“Ialreadytoldyou,Michael,that’snotmycall.Onceyou’reatPowellthey’re

goingtodosomemoretests—notphysicaltests,don’tworry—andiftheyagreewithSardinha’sdiagnosis,they’llstartyouonantipsychoticmedication.”“Idon’twantdrugs.”“Then don’t be schizophrenic,” he says. “Those are really your only two

optionsrightnow.”“Wecoulddotherapy.”“Oh, you’ll get therapy,” he says, “but not until after the drugsmake some

headway. Psychotherapy is designed to cure unhealthy thought processes, andunfortunately for you your thought processes are completely healthy—they’rejustreactingtofalsethoughts.”“SoI’msaneandinsaneatthesametime?”“Welcometoschizophrenia,”saysVanek.“Yourbrain’sabilitytotalktoitself

—which ishow itdoes its job—isdependenton the substancesdopamineandserotonin. No amount of psychotherapy can change the way those substances

interactwithyourbrain,butdrugscan.Oncetheyfindtherightdrug,attherightdose, the corruption in your thought patterns will disappear, and thehallucinationsanddelusionswilldisappearwiththem.Thentheycanstartsomesocialtherapyandlifeskillsandthatsortofthing;teachyouhowtoliveintherealworldagain.”“Sothey’rejustgoingtodrugmeuntilIstoptellingthemIseethings.”“Youcanlookatitthatwayifyouwant,”saysVanek,holdinguphishands.

“Whatyouthinkaboutitdoesn’treallymatter,doesit?Yourbrain’sbroken.”“Areyoutheworsttherapistever?”Vanekfrowns.“I’mnotyourmother,”hesays.“Nooneis.”“Tragicbutirrelevant.You’retwentyyearsold,Michael,andI’mnothereto

coddleyou.I’mhere tosmileat thestaffandsignsomepapersandcheckyouintoPowell.”“You’recomingwithme?”“Nottostay.Theyhavetheirowndoctors.”“ButI’myourpatient,right?You’remypersonaltherapist.”“I’m a therapist you haven’t visited in six months; I’ve had my shot and

failed.Ifyouwanttogetbetter,youneedtopaybetterattentiontoDr.Littlethanyoudidtome.”Hestandsup.“I’llgotellthemyou’reready.”Hestepstowardthe door, and it feels like part ofme—my life,my freedom—is being rippedaway. I can’t let them lock me up in a psych hospital; I have to think ofsomething.“Wait!” I shout.Hestopsand turns to lookatme.“Tell them…tell themI

can’tleaveyet!Thatthere’ssomethingwrong.”Irackmybrain.“Thememoryloss!Gowiththat;mymemory’sbeenscrewedupandyouthinkIshouldstayinaregularmedicalhospitaluntiltheyfigureoutwhy.”“Twominutesagoyouwerebeggingtogetoutofhere,andnowyouwantto

stay?”“It’sbetterthanapsychhospital.”“There’snothingIcando.”“Doesschizophreniaexplainthememoryloss?”“No…”

“ThentellthemIcan’tleaveuntilwefindsomethingthatdoes.MaybeIgotbraindamageinthefall.”“They’vegoneovertheMRIscansahundredtimes,Michael,there’snosign

oftrauma—”Mypulse thunders intooverdrive,and I feelmyheadgoing light.“Ihadan

MRI?”MyvoiceislouderthanIexpect;almostascreech.Vanek’s eyes widen at my outburst. “You fell,” he says, keeping his voice

calm.“AnMRIisthebestwaytotestforcranialandspinalinjuries—”“AnMRIislikea—”Idon’tevenknowhowtotalk;myheart’spoundingin

terror,my head’s going cold and light. “They’re trying to controlme throughelectronicdevices,andyoushovemeinsidethebiggestdeviceyoucanfind?AnMRIisdesignedtobombardyourbodywithanelectricfield;that’swhatit’sfor.WhoknowswhattheydidtomewhileIwasinthere!”“AnMRIiscompletelyharmless,Michael.”“Why can you not understand this! They could have readmymind, or put

something in it, or—or just cut chunks of it right out! That’s why I can’trememberanything!That’swhyI’mgoingcrazy!”Dr.Vanekopensthedoorandwalks into thehall,calling forDr.Sardinha,and I shoutafterhimdesperately.“You’ve got to getme into surgery, right now!Findwhatever they put inmyheadandcutitout!That’swhyIhaveafalsereality—Icanonlythinkwhattheywantmetothink!”Dr.Vanekdoesn’t comeback.About thirtyminutes laterFrank and another

orderlypropopenmydoorandstartwheelingmeout.“Listen,Frank,”Isay,“I’msorry,Ididn’tmeantodoit,sonohardfeelings,

right?”Heignoresme.“Frank,you’vegottahelpme,you’vegottagetmeoutofhere—don’t let me go to Powell, don’t… just takeme somewhere else, justwheelmeintoaclosetanduntiemeandyou’llneverseemeagain,Ipromise.”Nothing.“ComeonFrank,nohardfeelings,right?Youcanbitemebackifyouwant,if

itmakesyoufeelbetter,oryoucanpunchmeinthefaceorwhateveryouwanttodo—I’mserious,man, justhelpmeouthere.Helpme—”Wepush throughtheouterdoor,andtheywheelmetowardanambulance.I’mcryingnow.“ComeonFrank,we’refriends;youknowIdidn’tmean to

bite you, I was just scared is all, and you know I’d let you go if it wasme,right?”Theybumpmeup into thebackof the ambulance,medical equipmentwhirringandblinkingaroundme.“Please,please,pleasedon’tletthemtakeme.Please.Youdon’tknowwhatthey’regoingtodotomeinthere.”Frankclampsthegurneyintoplace.“They’regoingtomakeyoubetter.”He

stepsout.“Goodluck.”Heshutsthedoor,andwedriveaway.

FOUR

“HELLO,MICHAEL,”SAYSDR.LITTLE.I’minthecommonsroomatPowell, untied and standing up, flanked by a nurse namedDevon and a burlysecurityguardwhodidn’tbothertointroducehimself.“I’mDr.Little,”saysthedoctor.“Wemetbefore,doyouremember?”“Yes,” I say.Hewasmydoctor the last time the state threwme in here. In

manywaysDr.LittleistheexactoppositeofDr.Vanek—he’sasmallman,withakindsmileandapairofthickglassesthatmakehiseyeslookhuge.He’salsonicer,oratleastbetteratpretendingtobenice.“Good,good!”He talks a little too slowly,his facial expressions a little too

broad, like he’s talking to a child. I remember disliking him, and now Irememberwhy.“Youwerehereayearorsoago,asIrecall;wedeterminedthatyouhadgeneralizedanxietydisorder,andIprescribedKlonopin.HaveyoubeentakingyourKlonopin?”“I stopped sixmonths ago,” I say quickly, hoping to persuade him to try it

again.Klonopinannoyedme,butatleastitdidn’tmesswithmyhead;ifhetriessomethingstronger,whoknowswhatitwilldotome?“Ikeptpickingitup,butIwasn’ttakingit.I’msorry,Ireallyam.I’lldobetterthistime.”“Verygood,”he says,grinning like adoll. “That’s excellentnews,Michael,

excellent news. You’re really going to like this new medication. I’m reallylookingforwardtoit—”“Wait,”Isay,“newmedication?Seriously?Ithoughtweweregoingtohave

somemoretestsandtherapyandtalkaboutthissomemore.”Iinchawayfromhim—notevenan inch,maybeahalf inch.Therestraintsaregone,but Idon’twanttogivehimanyreasontobringthemback.“Wedon’thavetogostraighttothedrugs.”

“I assure you, Michael, you have nothing to be afraid of. In some waysLoxitane is just a different kind ofKlonopin.Did the hospital explain to youaboutdopamineandserotonin?”“Yeah,”Isay,swallowinghard.Icanseethepillnow,agreenblobinasmall

plasticcup.Heholdsitcasually,butIshybacklikeit’sasnake.“Excellent,”saysDr.Little.“TheKlonopinyouusedtotakestopsyourbrain

from overusing serotonin, and thatworkedmore or less okaywhile youweretakingit—thoughnot,apparently,wellenoughtokeepupwith theprogressofyourcondition.Loxitane,”heholdsuptheplasticcupandshakesit,rattlingthepillinside,“reducesyourbrain’suseofdopamine,andweanticipatethatitwillworkmuch better. Yourmedical history shows a very strong susceptibility todrugeffects,sowe’llstartyousmallwithtenmilligramsandseewherewegofromthere.Areyouready?”“Wait,”Isay,pullingbackfarther.“Can’twestartwithsomethingelsefirst?

Can’twetalkaboutthisanddecideifIevenneeddrugsatall?”“Yourdiagnosisalready recommendsdrugs,”he says, smiling,“and the fact

thattheKlonopinhadapositiveeffect,howeverminor,suggeststhatdrugswillcontinuetobebeneficial.Ontopofthat,yourrepeatedoutburstsatthehospitalsuggestratherstronglythatyourcondition,whetherschizophreniaorsomethingelse,hasbecomeurgent.Wewilltalk,justlikeyousuggest,butthere’snoreasontodelaythemedication.”“Butareyousureit’ssafe?”IthinkabouttheMRIandshudderinvoluntarily.

“You’resurethere’snothinginit,orthatitwon’t,Idon’tknow,like…”Iclosemyeyes.WhatamItryingtosay?“Everydrughassideeffects,”saysDr.Little, stepping towardme.Hehasa

glassofwaterinhisotherhand.“Butwewillbemonitoringyouconstantly,andwe’llmakesurenothinghappens.Say‘ah.’”Istart toprotestbuthedumpsthepill inmymouth,pouringaquickshotof

water inafter it. Isplutter,soakingmyfront,but thepill’salreadygonedown.It’sinsideme;Ifeelitlikeaholeinmygut.“Excellent,”saysDr.Little,smilingbroadly.“Now,yougetsomerest,andI’ll

seeaboutschedulingyouforsomeofourgroupsessions.”Inod,andthedoctorwalksaway.Thesecurityguardgoeswithhim.

“Well,”saysthenurse,clappingahandonmyshoulder,“welcometoPowell.Whatdoyouwanttodofirst?”Ialmostsay“escape,”butIstopmyself,thinkforaminute,andsmile.Ifthis

hospital ispartof thePlan,andtheFacelessMenreallyarewatchingmehere,thismightbemybestchancetolearnwhatthePlanactuallyis.Itwon’tdomeanygoodtoescapeuntilIknowhowthey’retrackingme,butifIstickaroundandkeepmyeyesopen,Imightlearnsomethingimportant.“Showmearound,”Isay.“Showmeeverything.”

***

THE THINGABOUT POWELL, or any psych hospital, is that nobodybelievesanythingyousay.This ismaddening,but it is alsopredictable, and ifyoucanpredictityoucanuseitforyourownadvantage.They’vedonenothingtoprotectthemselvesfromtheFacelessMen,becausetheythinkI’mcrazy,andthatlackofprecautionmeansthereareholesintheirsecurity.IfIcanfindthoseholesIcanusethem,andthebestwaytofindthemistothinkbackward:howaretheFacelessMengettingin?IfIcanretracetheirstepsinreverse,Icangetoutthesameholeanddisappearforever.Devonwalksmethroughthelargecommonsroom,dominatingthecenterof

Powell’ssecuredwing.The longestwall ismarkedwithwindows, justslightlytaller than I am, framed with old, painted metal and covered with a grate ofwovensteel.Theonlyview isanotherbuilding,anotherwingof thehospital Ithink.FromthewaytheshadowstracklefttorightacrossthefloorIassumethatthe sun is moving right to left, which means the windows face north. Thisinformationisnotuseful,butIfeelbetterforknowingit.Mostof the commons room is fullof tables, longcafeteria-style tableswith

simplemetalchairs.Thisiswherethepatientseat theirmealsandputtogetherpuzzlesandshufflemindlesslythroughtheaisles,tiny,scrubbingstepsinworn-out slippers. I stay away from these patients. The west end of the room iscarpeted,withsofasandcushionedchairsandalargeTVboltedontothewall.Istayawayfromthosepatientstoo.The south wall of the commons room has doors for patient rooms, and

hallwaysrunningeastandwest.Theeasthallwayleadspastmorepatientrooms,

then branches again to evenmore rooms, including the restroom and a large,communalshower.Thewesthallwayismuchshorter:afewfeetdownthere’sanurse’sstation,withanopendoorandawindowcutintothesouthwallatchestheight,andthenawidemetalgatetoblockusofffromtherestoftheworld.Ipeeratthegatefromadistance,eyeingtheelectronickeypadthatopensthelock,butIdon’tdaregettooclose.Thewindowtothenurse’sstationhasacomputermonitor,andIneedtokeepmydistance.Devonleadsmetowardmyroom,butoneofthepatientswalksoverquickly

tointerceptus.“Hello,Steve,”saysDevon.“This thenewguy?” asksSteve.He’s tallish, andvery skinny,with a black

scragglybeardandabrightredballcapturnedbackwardonhishead.“What’syourname?”“Michael,”Isay.“Justgot in?Justgotout?”Heknockshiswrists togetheracoupleof times,

signinghandcuffs.Inod.“Whereyougonnaputhim,Devon?Youcan’tputhiminJerry’sroom.”“Jerry doesn’t have a room anymore,” says Devon, still walking calmly.

“Remember?Jerrywenthome.”“Buthe stillhasa room,”saysSteve.“Hewon’t like it ifyougive it away.

Right?Hewon’tlikeit.”Devon smiles. “We already gave his room to Gordon,” he says, and Steve

frowns.“Gordon?Whichone’sGordon?”“You knowGordon, Steve,” saysDevon. “We have this conversation every

week.”“YougavehimJerry’sroom?”“Acoupleofmonthsago.”“Gordon!”shoutsSteve,spinningaround.Hepausesamoment,scanningthe

room,thenstormsoff.“Gordon,comehere!”Devonchuckles.“JerryleftinFebruary;guycan’tgetitthroughhishead.”“He’sbeenherethatlong?”“Fivemonths,”saysDevon.“Don’tworry,though,mostpeopleareinandout

ofherealotquickerthanthat.”Inod.“AnythingelseIshouldknow?”Devon looks around the room. “It’s pretty mellow in here, all things

considered. That bald guy isDwight; if he starts talking about ammonia, he’sabouttogetviolent,sokeepyourearsopen.”“Iwill.”“Here’syourroom.”Heopensadoorandshowsmein;it’saprettystandard

hospitalroom,witharaisedbedandawheeledtableandasmalldresserinthecorner.There’s noTV, but there is a small clock radio bolted to the dresser. Idon’tsayanythingaboutit.“Everythinglookgood?”asksDevon.“Great,” I say,nodding. Ineed toget ridof that radio,butother than that it

looksgreat.“You’rea little late fordinner,but Icouldprobablyrustleupasnack ifyou

wantone.”“Nothanks,”Isay,shakingmyhead.“I’mfine.I’llseeyoulater.”“I’m taking off soon,” saysDevon, “but if you change yourmind the night

nursecantakecareofyou.Sorryyoudon’tgetawindow,butthere’sonly—”SuddenlyI’monthefloor,grittingmyteethandclutchingmyheadinagony.

Devonbuzzes,alowelectronichum,andhedropstohiskneenexttome.“Mike,areyouokay,man?”Hebuzzesagain.“Get away!” The pain is blinding—I feel like my head is swelling and

compressingall atonce,kneadingmybrain likebruiseddough.DevonbuzzesagainandIshovehimaway,pushingmyselfbackintothecorner.“Don’ttouchme!”Myskullfeelslikeit’sbreakingapart,crackingopenlikeanegg,andIgrabit

desperately, trying tohold thepieces together.Thebuzzcomesagain, strongerthistime,andIscreamtodrownitout.“Come on, Mike,” says Devon, and then he leaves at a run. I stay in the

corner,clutchingmyheaduntilitfeelsnormalagain.Nothing’sbroken.Ihearavoiceatthedoor.“Newguy.”Ilookup.Mydoorisclosed.

“Heynewguy,youawake?”“Who’sthere?”“Notthebestwaytostartyourfreedom,shovinganurse.”“Ididn’tmeanto,hewas…”Hewasbuzzing.“Hewasattackingme.”“You’reactinglikeanidiot,andtheydon’tletidiotsleave.”Iraisemyhead.Whatwasthatguy’sname—theonefromthehall?“Areyou

Steve?”“Theyarealwayswatchingus,”hesays.“Alwayswatching.”“Thedoctors?”Hisvoiceisathinwhisper.“TheFacelessMen.”Iscrambletothedoor,halfcrawling,slippingontheslicklinoleum.Footsteps

runaway,peltingdown thehall,andwhenIyankopen thedoor thehallway’sempty.Iwhisperas loudas I can. “Steve!”There’snoanswer. Ipokemyheadout

intothehallwayandlookdownthroughthecommonsroomtotheTVonthefarside;there’saswarmofactivitybythenurse’sstation.Islidebackintomyroomandpushthedoorclosed.Someone’stryingtowarnme,whichmeansI’mnottheonlyonewhoknows.

Idon’tthinkit’sSteve.IsthehospitalpartofthePlan?Aretheyinonit,orjustpawns?Whoeveritwaswasright;theFacelessMenarehere.Somehow,maybein theMRI, they put something into my head that lets them control me, andwhenever theywant they can flip a switch andmakeme see things and hearthings and do things—whatever they want me to do. Even if I leave I’m aprisoner.UnlessIcanfindouthowitworks,andhowtheyfindme.Ipulltheblanketoffmybedandcovertheradio.Withthesensorsneutralized,

Ireachbehindthedresserandpullouttheplug,killingitcompletely.Butalotoftheseclockradioshavebatteries,incaseofapoweroutage.Canitstillbroadcastwithoutbeingpluggedin?Igrabtheblanket,takeadeepbreath,andyankitoff.Thescreenisblank;itdoesn’thavebatteries.Unless the batteries only power the transmitter, with no juice left for the

screen.Ineedwater;withaglassofwaterIcouldshortitout.Whatwouldthedoctors

say—dotheyknowI’mbeingwatched?AretheypartofthePlan,orjustpawnsinit?Ithrowtheblanketbackovertheclock,justincase,andprobetherestoftheroom,lookingforcameras—foranythingelsetheymightbeusingtowatchme.Ican’tfindanything.“Michael?”I turn around; Devon’s back, withDr. Little and another nurse. I stand up,

tenseandembarrassedfrombeingcaught.DotheyknowwhatIwaslookingfor?Dr. Little steps forward. “Are you okay, Michael? Devon said you were

havingaseizure.”I glance atDevon; he caused it, didn’t he? Is this an act, tomakeme trust

them, or do they really not know?MaybeDevon has an implant aswell, andtheyusehimtogettome.“Michael?”asksDr.Little.“I’mfine,”Isayquickly.Whatevertheydidtomewasreal—ithurt,itwasa

realpain—butIdon’ttellthem.“Itwasjust…itwasnothing.”“You pushed Devon,” says Dr. Little sternly. “Do you think that’s an

acceptablebehavior?”Myheartsinks.“No,sir.”“We let you out of your restraints, despite your violence at the hospital,

becauseyoupromisedtoactpeacefully.Doyouneedtoberestrainedagain?”“No sir, no I don’t.” I swallow hard, trying not to look atDevon. “It’s just

that…it’snotgoingtohappenagain.”“See that it doesn’t,” saysDr. Little, and then the smile comes back to his

face.“I’mgladwehaveanunderstanding.WhileI’mhere,you’llbepleasedtoknowthatyoualreadyhaveavisitor,oratanyrateavisitorrequest.I toldherthatourvisitinghourswereoverfortheevening,butshe’llbebackfirstthinginthemorning.”“Who?”“Afriendofyours.”

FIVE

LUCY ARRIVES JUST AFTER BREAKFAST—oatmeal and applejuiceandLoxitane,servedonatrayanddeliveredfromathickplasticcart,likearollingcupboard.IthinkIcouldfitinsidethatcart;ifIwasabletocrawlinwhennobody’s looking, I could hold very still and they’dpullme right through thegatetofreedom.“Michael!” Lucy runs across the commons room, grabbing my hand for a

momentbeforethrowingherarmsaroundmeinamassivehug.Iclosemyeyes,feeling her heart beat againstme. She kissesmy ear, and I feel her tearswetagainstmyskin.“Oh,Michael,Michael,”shesays.“I’msosorry.IcameassoonasIheard.”“It’sokay.”Shepullsbackand takesmyhand inhers, lookingdownwithconcern.“It’s

notokay.”She’sbeautiful.She’sdyedherhairagain—back toblack this time,coveringthebrightpurplestreaksshehadafewweeksago.Sheseesmelookingat it and shrugs, reachingup to twist a strand inher fingers. “Ididn’tknow ifthey’dletmeinhereanyotherway.Idon’tmind;Ilikeblack.”Shepullsupachairandsitsnexttome,comfortingandfamiliar:herwornblackjeans,heroldblackT-shirt,thesmileinthecornersofhermouth.Iholdherhand.“Wherehaveyoubeen?Thehospitalcouldn’treachyou,and

Ithoughtsomethinghadhappened.”“They probably have an old number,” she says. “I had to move kind of

suddenly.Butwhere have youbeen, that’s the question. I’ve been looking foryouforweeks.Ithoughtyou’dhadanotherdepressiveattackorsomething,butyourdadsaidyouhadn’tcomehome.”“Heactuallytalkedtoyou?”

Sherollshereyes.“Sortof.Hestillhatesme.Butthistimehewasn’tignoringme,hewasaccusingmeofrunningoffwithyou.Iputtwoandtwotogetherandfiguredhecouldn’tfindyoueither.”I lookaroundquickly;we’regettingsome looksfromtheotherpatients,but

noneofthemarecloseenoughtohear,andtheonlydoctorintheroomisonthefarside,holdingsomekindoftherapysessionbytheTV.IleaninclosetoLucy,whisperingsoftly.“Iwasrunningfromsomeone.”Herfacegoessolemn.“Who?”Igesturediscretelyattheroomaroundus.“Whodoyouthink?I’mnotsureof

thedetails,but…”Ileancloser.“DoyourememberwhenIusedtotellyoutherewerepeoplewatchingme?”“Yeah,butyounevertoldmewho.Isittheseguys—thehospital?”I’venevertoldher thetruthbefore.Willshebelieveme?WillshethinkI’m

crazy?Idon’tknowifIdaretellhereverything.“I’mnotsureofallthedetails,becauseI’velostsomememory,butabouttwoweeksagoTheymadesomekindofmove—orat least I thinkTheymusthave,becausesomethingpromptedmeintoaction,andIwenton therun. I lefthome,Istoppedgoing towork, Iwashidingout…somewhere.Dr.Vaneksaidthepolicefoundmeunderanoverpass,but Imust have run because I fell out of awindow. That’swhen they finallycaughtme.”“Youfell?”Sheputsahandonmyhead,feelingforlumps.“Areyouokay?Is

thatwhyyoulostmemory?”“I think so, or it might be the…” It might be the MRI, reacting with the

implant,butIdon’tsaythatoutloud.Ican’tbearthethoughtofherlookingatmethewaythedoctorsdo,likeI’msomekindofhelplessheadcase.“Listen,it’snotimportanthowtheycaughtme,whatmattersisthatIneedtogetoutofhere.ThisisnotlikelastyearwhenIspenttwoweeksinrecoveryforanxiety—thisisserious. They’ve trumped up a big fake diagnosis so they can hold meindefinitely;somethingcalledschizophrenia.”Sheshakesherhead.“Multiplepersonalities?”“No, that’s something else. Schizophrenia is like I’m hallucinating or

something—likeanofficial stamp that invalidateseverything I say.As longas

they tell people I’m crazy, they can holdme in here and observeme and doanythingtheywantwithme.Ithinktheymightevenbeexperimentingonme.”Lucysnarls.“Bastards.Whydotheywantyou?”I saynothing, staring into her face.She stares back, angry andworried and

trusting. I take a deep breath—I won’t tell her everything, but I can tell hersome.“TheythinkIhavesomethingtodowiththeRedLineKiller.”“What?”Shepracticallyshoutsit,andIquietherquickly,hissingthroughmy

teeth.“Keepitdown!”“Theythinkyou’retheRedLine?”“Dr.Vaneksaidtheydid,butnoone’saskedmeanyquestionsyet.Howmuch

doyouknowaboutthecase?”“Notmuch,” she says, “just stuff I’ve overheard in the restaurant.Why do

theythinkithasanythingtodowithyou?”“Because the victims were all…” I can’t mention the Faceless Men—she

doesn’tknowaboutthem.“TheywereallfromtheChildrenoftheEarth.”“MilosCerny’scult?”Inod.MilosCernywasthemanwhokilledmymother.“Ineedyoutofindout

more,” I say. “Find out everything you can—who the Red Line’s killed, andwhen,andhow,andwhattheChildrenhavetodowithit.I’mgoingtodowhatIcantogetoutofhere,butIdon’twantyoutiedupinthat—Idon’twanttogiveThemanyexcusetocomeafteryoutoo.”“I’lldomybest,”shesays,“but…whoareThey?”“Ican’t tellyou rightnow,” I say,“justplease, trustme,and I’ll tellyouas

soonasIcan.Youshouldgonow.”Andsuddenlythere’sthelook—notasbadasI’dfeared,notasblatant,butit’s

there.She’sdoubtingme.Ifeeltearsgrowinghotbehindmyeyes.“Please,Lucy—please.I’mnotcrazy.”Shepursesherlips,thinking,thenfinallynods.“Ibelieveyou.”“Thankyou.Nowgo,andbecareful.”Sheleansinandkissesme,thensqueezesmyhandandturnstogo.Thereare

tears inhereyes.Theotherpatients in the roomarewatchingme, somequick

and sharp, eyes darting to and fro, others staring slack-jawed, like they’re notevenseeingmeatall.WhichonesshouldIbeafraidof?I take another bite of oatmeal, but it’s gone cold. I scan the room subtly,

lookingforFacelessMen,lookingforcameras,lookingforanythingtheymightuse to triggermy implantor readmymind.There’saclockon thewall,blackhandslikescissorssnappingclosedonthenumber10.Canaclocksendasignal?What’shidingbehindit?Theycallitaclockface—whatifitmeans—“Michael?”Iturnwithastart.Thewomanfrombeforeisstandingbehindme:thereporter.“I’msorry,” she says,“I seem tobemakingahabitof startlingyou. Idon’t

meanto.”“You…”Ifeelwordlesslyuncomfortable.“KellyFischer,”shesays,holdingoutherhand,“fromtheSun.”Idon’ttakeherhand.“You’rehere.”“Thanksforkeepingquietaboutme.”Shepullsupachairandsits.“Youkind

offreakedmeoutbefore,aboutyoubeingasuspect,butmyeditorsaidtotalktoyou anyway—you’re not officially a suspect yet, so if I interview you now,beforetheyannounceit,wecanscoopeverybodyelse.”Something about her feels wrong, somehow. I watch her carefully. She

watchesme,waitingforsomething,andwhenIdon’tspeaksheleansforward,puttingahandonmyknee.“Obviouslywe’regoingtodoeverythingwecantogetyououtofhere,justlikeIpromised.”“HowcanItrustyou?”“We’re on your side, Michael, you’ve got to know that.” She pulls her

notebookandpenfromherpurseandholdsthemup.“Norecorder,likeyousaid;justthepen.Nowmyfriendatthehospitaltellsmeyou’velostsomememory,isthatcorrect?”Iwatchhercarefully,tryingtoanalyzeherwords.Whatisshereallyafter?It

doesn’t give her anything to confirm what she already knows, so I shrug.“Yeah.”“Abouttwoweeks’worth?”Inod.“Listen,Michael,you’regoingtohavetobealittlemoretalkativethanthis.

Doyou have any ideawhere youmight have been during the twoweeks youcan’tremember?”Istudyherface,warringwithmyself—doIsaynothing?DoIsayeverything?

HowdoIknowwheretostopinthemiddle?“Mostofit’sahaze,”Isay.“Icanremember some things, silly things I guess, like a water faucet handle, but Idon’tknowwhereIwasorwhy.Iwasunderanoverpasswhenthepolicefoundme, but I must have run because I fell out of a window. That’s when theyfinally…caughtme.”Igetthemosthorriblefeelingofdéjàvu,andfeelmyselfgrownauseous.“Let’sgoback further, then,” she says. “Haveyouhadanycontactwith the

ChildrenoftheEarthsinceyouwereaninfant?”“No,none.”“Youhaven’tgonelookingforthem,orfoundanymembersofthecult?”“WhywouldIgolookingforthem?”“I’mgrasping at strawshere,Michael; if you’d say something substantive I

wouldn’thavetodragitalloutofyoulikethis.”“Whatdoyouexpectmetosay?”“You toldme before that you hated theChildren of the Earth,” saysKelly,

“andyousaidyou’dsoonerkillonethanassociatewithhim.WhatI’maskingis,didyoueveractonthat?”Thenervousfluttersswirlsicklythroughmychest.“What?”“You obviously hated them, you’ve obviously thought about it, and you

provedatthehospitalthatyou’remorethancapableofviolencewhensomethingsetsyouoff.Idon’tthinkit’soutofthequestiontoaskifyoueverthoughtaboutactingonyourhatred.”“Idon’twanttotalktoyouanymore.”“Thisisveryimportant.”“I’mnotakiller!”Peoplearelookingatusnow.Eventhedoctorinthecornerlooksupfromher

therapysession.“I’mnotakiller,” Ihiss.“They’re theoneswhoare followingme—I’m the

victimhere!”“Whoa,” saysKelly, her eyes goingwide, “you say they’re following you?

TheChildrenoftheEarth?”Igrumbleandshakemyhead, feeling thenervous flurry rising inmychest.

“Not them, it’s…I’mnotcrazy,okay?All Iwantedwas togetaway. Ididn’thurtanyone,Ijustleft,andIneedtoleaveagainbeforetheygetwhattheywant—”“Whatdotheywant?”“Idon’tknow!”“Excuseme,”saysawoman—thedoctorfromthetherapysession—“istherea

problem?”“I’mfine,”Isay,strugglingtocalmdown.Ican’tletthemseemelikethis—

I’mnotcrazy.“I’mfine.”“Whydon’twegotoyourroom,alright?”asksthedoctor.Shehelpsmetomy

feet.“You’redoinggreat,Michael,you’renotinanytrouble,we’rejustgoingtohavealittlerest.”“Idon’tneedarest.”“Iknowyoudon’t,but someof theotherpatientsdo,andwedon’twant to

disturbthemwithshouting.”“Wait,”Isay,“Ihaveonemore—”IturntoaskKellyaquestion,butshe’sgone.

SIX

THEDRUGS,ASFARAS Ican tell,donothing. It’sbeenaweeknow—sevendays—andI’vehadnomorevisitsfromLucyorthereporter.I’vetriedtocontactmysecretally,whoeverheis,buthedoesn’tanswer.I’malone.Theygivemeoatmeal,theygivemepills,theycomeandtheygo.Thedoctor

whotookmebacktomyroom,LindaJones,invitesmetohertherapysessions,butI’mtoosmartforthat.She’sjusttryingtogetmeintothecornerwheretheTVcanmesswithmyhead.I’vecatalogedeveryelectronicdeviceinthesecuredwing:acomputeranda

TVinthenurses’station,anelectriclockonthegate,aTVandananalogclockon the commons room wall, a digital clock in every bedroom, two securitycamerasinthemainhall,twosmokealarmsinthemainhall,andanothersmokealarm in the restroom. Every angle is covered; every corner is filled. There’snowhereTheycan’tseeme.WhenIpourwateronmydigitalclocktheyreplaceit;that’showIknowthat

itworked.IfIeverneedtodisappearagain,Icankilltheclockwithjustalittlecupofwater.OntheseventhdayI’mstandinginthehall,watchingDevononthefarsideof

the room. Is hewatchingme? Is he real—is his face real?He smiles, and themusclesmovebelievablyunder the skin.Anothernursewalkspastme towardthegate,andI turn towatchasshe types in thecodeon thekeypad:6,8.Sheshifts to the side and I losemyview; thegate clicks open and shewalks out,closingitfirmlybehindher.6and8.Howmanymorenumbersarethere?Thenurse turnsacorneroutofsightandanother formsteps intoview—aFacelessMan,tallandstraightinaslimgraysuit,standingjustbeyondthegate.Helooksat me—even with no eyes I can tell he’s looking straight at me, his face a

distortedblur.Idon’tmove,andneitherdoeshe.Something touchesmy shoulder and I spin around, frightened, but it’s only

Devon.“Someone’s here to…whoa,Mikey, are you okay? I didn’tmean to scare

you.”“There’ssomeonethere.”Ispinback,pointingat theFacelessMan,buthe’s

gone, and in his place are twomen standing just beyond the gate, their facescalmandnormal, their suitsblack insteadofgray.“Hewas right there,” I say,steppingforwardanxiously.Itrytoseebehindthemen,butIfeelthebuzzofthecomputermonitor and shy back. I look atDevon. “Did you see him?” I lookbackat themen in thehall. “Hewas right there—didyou seehim?Youmusthavewalkedrightpasthim!”I’mshoutingnow.“Hewasamanwithoutaface—didyouseehim?”The men look at each other, and one of them, an Asian man, raises an

eyebrow.TheythinkI’mcrazy.“Easy,Mikey,there’snobodythere.Okay?Justtakeiteasy.”“Don’ttellmetotakeiteasy.”I’msupposedtobeconvincingthemI’msane,

not freaking out like this. “It was just… a joke, Devon, it was just a joke.”That’sastupidline,ofcoursehewon’tbelieveit.Icranemynecktoseeoverthemen to thehallbeyond.TheFacelessManmightbe justoutof sightbehindacorner.“ThesearethemenItoldyouabout,”saysDevon,walkingtothegate.Ihear

thebeepsashepunchesinthecode,buttheyallsoundthesame;Ican’tguessthenumbersfromthesounds.ThemencomethroughandDevonclosesthegatebehindthem.“They’reheretoseeyou,Michael,they’refromtheFBI.”Mybloodgrowscold.“I’mAgentLeonard,”saysthetallone,andpointstotheAsian.“Thisismy

partner,AgentChu.We’dliketohaveawordwithyouifwecould.”“Ididn’tkillanyone.”“Weneversaidyoudid.”“YouthinkI’mtheRedLineKiller,that’swhyyou’rehere,butI’minnocent

—I’veneverkilledanybody.I’veneverevenhurtanybody.”“Wejustwanttotalktoyou,”saysAgentChu.“We’rehopingyoumightbe

abletohelpus.”Devonstandsnext tome.“He’snotexactly…healthy…rightnow.Idon’t

knowwhatyouexpecttolearnfromhim.”“Dr. Little explained his condition when we spoke with him,” says Agent

Leonard.“Weunderstandthathe’scrazy—”“Wedon’tusethatword,”saysDevonquickly.“Iapologize,”saysLeonard.“Istherearoomwecouldgoto?”Devon leads them tooneof theprivate therapy rooms,a small roomwitha

round tableanda ringofplasticchairs. Idon’t follow,butDevoncomesbackandpullsmetowardit,coaxingmewithapromiseofcandy.“Doesthatworkontheotherpatients?”Iask.“Justcomeon,”saysDevon,“they’renotgoingtohurtyou,theyjustwantto

askyousomequestions.”Istandinthedoorway,bracingmyselfagainstthewallsohecan’tpushmein.

“Cellphonesoutfirst.”“What?”“Nocellphones,norecorders,noelectronicdevicesofanykind,”Isay.“You

wanttotalktome,Iwanttomakesurethey’renotlistening.”Unlessthewholeroomisalreadywired—whoknowswhatthatmaninthehallwasdoinghere.“Is it alright if we just turn them off?” asks Agent Chu. I stare at him,

wonderingifhe’spartofit—ifyoutakeoffhisface,wouldhelookliketheothermaninthehall?Butno—evenfaceless,IfeellikeIcanrecognizethem,andthismanisdifferent.Theybothare.Inod,andtheyturnofftheirphones.Islipincarefullyandsitdown,pullingmychairtothedoorsoIcanrunifI

needto.Devoncomesinaswell,closingthedoorbehindhim.“Let’s startbysaying that this isnotan interrogation,” saysAgentLeonard.

“We know about your condition, we know about the hallucinations anddelusions,weknowthateverythingyousayheremightbecompletelyimaginary.Nothingyousaytodaywillbeusedasevidenceagainstyou,okay?Wejustwanttoaskyousomequestions.”Isitstill,waiting.Afteramomenthespeaksagain.“YousayyouseeFacelessMen,”hesays.“Canyoupleasedescribethem?”“Why,doyouknowaboutthem?That’swhatthisis,isn’tit—you’reFBI,you

knowallabouttheconspiracy.”IlookatDevon,grinning.“Itoldyoutheywerereal.”“Please just describe them, Michael, so that we know we’re on the same

page.”“They’re…menwithoutfaces.”“I need you to bemore specific than that. If the face is gone,what’s there

instead?”“Nothing.”“Therehastobesomething—evenaholeis‘something.’”“It’s not a hole,” I say, “it’s like their face is just … blank. There’re no

features,noeyesandnoseandmouth.”AgentChupasseshishandoverhisface.“Youmeanjustsmoothskin?”“It’smorelikea…likeablur,”Isay.“Likeasmear.”“Red?”“It’sskin-colored,”Isay,“notbloodoranything like that.Their facesaren’t

destroyed,they’rejust…notthere.That’swhyI’mnotthekiller.”“Whenwas the last time you saw one of thesemen,” asksAgent Leonard,

thenshakeshisheadslightly,“notcountingtheoneinthehall?”“Therewasoneinthehospital.”“Standingup,liketheoneyousawtoday?”“Ofcourse.”“Andbeforethat?”“Therewasone thatcameinto thebakery,”Isay.“Ihavea jobatMueller’s

Bakery,andtherewasonethatcameinthereeveryweek.”Agent Chu writes that down. My pulse quickens, and I try to control my

breathing.“Isthatimportant?”“Wejustwanttogetall theinformationwecan,”saysAgentLeonard.“Can

youtellusthelasttimeyousawthemaninthebakery?”“Itwasawoman.”“Afacelesswoman?”Helooksconfused.“Sheboughtbread.”“That doesn’t sound very ominous,” saysAgentChu. “I thought thiswas a

secretcabalwatchingyoureverymove,notjustpeopleintheneighborhood.”

“Shewas checking up onme,” I say. I don’t like his tone—he’s not jokingwithme,he’sserious.Hesounds…suspicious.“Thatwaspartofhowtheykepttabsonme.”“Andthelasttimeyousawher?”“Aboutamonthago, Iguess.Rightbefore the twoweeksIcan’t remember.

I’mnotexactlysure—it’shardtokeeptrackoftimeinhere.”“Canyoudescribewhattheywerewearing?”asksAgentLeonard.“Theoneatthebakeryhadjustregularclothes,Iguess.Adress,withlike…

flowers, I think.” It’s hard to remember. I never got a good look, because Ialwayshidinthebackwhenshecame.“Notalotofhousewivesweardressesthesedays,”saysAgentChu,writingit

down.“Ifshe’sreal,sheshouldbeeasytofind.”“She’sreal,”Iinsist.“Didanyoneelseseeher?”“Ofcoursetheydid,theysoldherbreadeveryweek.”“Didtheythinkitwasweirdthatshedidn’thaveaface?”Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.WasMr.Muellerinonittoo?Weretheypayinghim

tokeepquiet,ormaybethreateninghim?Orcouldhereallynotseeit?WhatifI’mtheonlyonewhocan?“Michael?”Isnapback.“What?”“Didyouhearmyquestion?”“Idon’twanttoanswerthatquestion.”“Fair enough,” saysAgent Leonard. “How about the one in the hall—what

washewearing?”“Agray suit,” I say. “Ahat, like the…” I gesture atmyhead, struggling to

describe thehat.“Kindof shaped likeacowboyhat, Iguess,butwitha smallbrim,andreallynice.Likeaclassygrayhatthatyou’dwearwithasuit.”“Afedora.”“Iguess.”The twoagents lookedateachother.AgentChustandsup.“I’ll see if Ican

catchhimbeforeheleavesthebuilding.”“Youdidseehim!Iknewit!”

“Yes,Michael,hepassedusinthehall.Hehadaface,though.”AgentChuleft,andDevonwentwithhimtohelpwiththegate.Ilookedback

atAgentLeonard.“You’vegottogetmeoutofhere.Whenyoufindthatguyandquestionhim

you’ll know—this whole place is part of the Plan, They’re keeping me hereagainstmywill,andyou’vegottogetmeout.”“CanyoudescribeanyotherFacelessMen?”“You’re not listening tome,” I say. “You’ve got to believeme. Thatman’s

probably an administrator or an owner or something—he runs this place, Iguaranteeit,andassoonashefindsoutIblewthewhistleonhimIamgoingtodisappear—hemightalreadyknow.IsyourcellphoneturnedofflikeIasked?”“We’re going to talk to him,” says Agent Leonard, “but not because we

suspecthimofanything.Wejustwanttofigureoutwhyyouseecertainpeopleasfaceless.”“Becausethey’retryingtokillme!”“Tell me, Michael, have you ever seen one of these faceless people in a

custodialuniform?Likeabrownjumpsuit?”“No,why?”“DoesthenameBrandonWoodsmeananythingtoyou?”“Shouldit?”“HowaboutachemicalcompanycalledChemCom?”“No—whereisthisallgoing?”Devoncomesback.“Iseverythingokay,Michael?”“We’reactuallydonehere,”saysAgentLeonard,standingup.“We’llseeifwe

canfindeitherofthesepeoplehe’stalkingabout—seeifthey’rereal,seeiftheyhaveanyconnectionatalltothemurders.Nosensegoinganyfurtherifallwe’regettingfromhimismade-upjunk.”“I’mnotmakingitup.”“At least not on purpose.” He walks to the door. “Dr. Little says your

treatment’sworking, sowhenyourmind’s clearedupabitwe’ll bebackwithmorequestions.”Devonholdsthedooropen.“Youmeaniftheseleadscheckout?”“No,we’recomingbackeitherway.Thisisapsychhospital,right?”Helooks

atme.“Soundsliketheperfectplacetoaskaboutyourmother.”Devonwalkshimtothegate.Ican’tseethenumberswhenhetypesthemin.“Comeon,man,”saysDevon,walkingback tome,“it’s time togetcleaned

up.”Ilethimturnmeandleadmetotheshower.IftheFBIareherethenthereporterwasright,andtheyreallydosuspectme.

And if the FacelessMen are here, traveling openly, then the hospital really isworking with Them. Or for Them. That would explain Devon’s buzzing. IsLindainonitaswell,orDr.Little?Whatabouttheotherpatients?Ineed tobemorecareful.Whenweget to theshower I leave thehotwater

turnedoff,justtobesure,andbracemyselfforthefrigidblast.

SEVEN

SOMETHING TOUCHES MY ARM and I jerk awake, shoutingwordlessly.Alightblindsme,andIthrowupmyhandstoshieldmyface.“Easy,”saysawoman’svoice,“it’sjustme.”Ifeelahandonmyarm,softand

feminine, and when my eyes adjust I see a pretty woman holding a smallpenlight.AtfirstIthinkit’sLucy,butsheshinesthelightonherfaceandIseethatit’snot.“I’msorrytowakeyou,Michael.Ididn’tmeantoscareyou.”“Whoareyou?”“I’mShauna,thenightnurse.Areyoufeelingokay?”“Yeah,just…scaredisall.Juststartled.I’mfine.”“Sorry about that. I didn’twant towake you up, but I guess I did anyway,

huh?”Sheholdsmywristandshinesthelightonherwatch,takingmypulse.Iwait,watchingher count.When she finishes she keeps her handonmywrist,holdingitlightly.“Howareyoufeeling?”“Youcanturnthelightonifyouwant,”Isay.“It’sbetterthanthe…”Ilookat

theflashlightinherhand,wonderingiftheFacelessMencantapintoitthewaytheydowiththeotherdevices—itcreatesanelectricfield,atleastasmallone,butitcan’treallysendorreceiveasignal.Ormaybethisonecan,iftheFacelessMenhaveinfiltratedthehospital.Iwanttotellhertokeepitoutside,butIalsowant to looknormal. I can’t escape if theykeep suspectingme. “I’mgreat,” Isay,nodding.“I’mfine.”“Okay,” she says. Her fingers on my arm are cool and calming. “Is there

anythingyouneed?”Ipause.It’sbeentoolongsincethereporterwashere—shesaidshe’dbeback

inafewdays,butit’sbeenoveraweek.Whatwentwrong?Wasittoohardto

findevidenceinmyfavor?“Doyouknow…Istheresomekindoflistofpeoplewhocometovisit?Like

asign-insheetorsomething?”“Thereis,”shesays,nodding.“Wouldyoulikemetocheckonsomething?”“I’mjust…”Idon’tknowwhat I’m just.“Iwasexpectinga friend,andshe

hasn’tcome,andIjustwonderif…Idon’tknow.”“Youthinkshemighthavecomewhenyouwereasleep?”I look at the window in the door, showing faint light from the hallway. “I

guessI’mjustworriedthatshemighthavecomeandlookedinanddecidednottocomeinside.Youknow?LikeI’mall…”Irealizemyeyesarewet,andIwipethemwiththebackofmyhand.“It’slikeI’mamonster.Ican’tdoanything,Ican’tseeanyone,Ican’tgoanywhere.…It’slikeI’minazoo.”“Easy,Michael,”shesays,andsqueezesmywrist.Ifeelstupidandweak.“I

knowit’shardinhere,”shesays,“butyou’vegotus.We’reyourfriends.”Shesmiles,andItrynottoflinchawayfromthepenlight.“Youlikepeaches?”“Peaches?”Shelaughs,warmandcheerfulinthedarkness.“Ilovepeaches—myparents

usedtohaveanorchard,andmymomwouldcanthemeveryyear.Theyalwayscheermeup.Iknowit’snotmuch,butifyouwantsomepeachesforbreakfastIcan put a note on your chart and see if the kitchen can send any up in themorning.Makeyoufeelalittlemore…likeaperson.Youknow?”Ifeelstupidandembarrassed,butitdoessoundnice.Inod.“That’dbegood.I

likepeaches.”“Great.”Ican’tseeherinthedark,butIimagineshe’ssmiling.Ismileback.

***

INTHEMORNINGmyoatmealcomeswithpeaches,buttheytastewrong—sweetbut superficial. I can’tplace it exactly. I alsohaveanextrapill; they’vedoubledmy dose. I feel depressed, like I’ve somehow ruined everything. Thecommonsroombuzzeswithconversation,butfromwhatIcantellmostof thepatients are talking to themselves, not to each other.Which one is my secretally?Iscanthetablessilently,tryingnottolooksuspicious,butit’simpossibletotell.

“Michael.”Ijerkmyheadup,surprised,andseeDr.Vaneksettleintoachairbesideme.

“You’reratherdeepinthought;Icouldbarelygetyourattention.”“Sorry,”Isay,“just…thinking.”“WhichiswhyIsaidyouweredeepinthought.”Anotherpatientsitsatourtable,asmallmanwithwideeyesandfrizzyhair,

butVanekshooshimaway.“Ihatethesehospitals.”“Seriously,”Iask.“Howdidyoueverbecomeapsychiatrist?”“Youmightcallitasurvivalmechanism.”“Youhateeveryonehere.”“I hate everyone out there aswell, so psychiatry is noworse than anything

else.”“Great.”Itakeabite.“Whatbringsyouhere,anyway?”“Yourpsychoses.IfindmyselfincreasinglyfascinatedthemoreIlearnabout

them.”Inodandclickmytongue.“I’mgladI’mentertaining.”“Tellme,Michael, is there some specificmemory of a phone that you find

particularlyhorrifying?”“What?”“Phones,”herepeats.“You’rescaredofthem,andIwanttoknowwhy.Many

schizophrenicdelusionsarebasedonspecificeventsfromthepatient’spast—itmay be that you see FacelessMen, for example, because of some childhoodabusebyamanwithanobscuredface.”“Iwasneverabused,”Isayquickly.“Yes you were,” he says, “at least emotionally, by that disaster you call a

father.ItmaybethatyourdelusionsofFacelessMensomehowcomefromhim.”“Myfatherhasaface.”“Icansee thatyou’remissingeverypoint I try tomake,”hesays.“Wewill

retreatfromthegeneralandreturntothespecific:whyareyouafraidofphones?Is it all cell phones? Is it themere idea of them, or is it their usage? Is it aspecificringthatholdssomekindofburiedmeaningforyou?”“Youalreadyknowwhy.”“Yes, yes,” he says, “but that explanation applies to all devices generically.

Your outburst a fewweeks ago,when you attackedDevon,was focused on aspecific device.You didn’t react to the clock radio in your room, but the cellphonescaredyouterribly.”“Wait,”Isay,settingdownmyforkwithafrown.“Therewasacellphonein

theroom?”“Ofcoursetherewas;whatdidyouthinkwasbuzzing?”“Thatbuzzingwasacellphone?”Dr.Vanekraisesaneyebrow,drummingthetablewithhispudgyfingers.“He

keeps it set to ‘vibrate’ to avoid disturbing the patients, though that obviouslydidn’tworkinyourcase.Tellme,Michael,whatdidyouthinkitwas?”“Ithoughtitwas…Idon’tknow.”“Surely you thought about it long enough to concoct some kind of

explanation.Pantsdon’tjustbuzzfornoreason,andyourintensereactiontothesoundmakesitobviousyouwereawareofit.”“I thought itwas—” I stop. I can’t tell himwhat I thought itwas.For all I

knowVanekispartofthePlanaswell.“Ididn’tknowitwasacellphone.”“Butitwas,”hesays,“whichreturnsustomyquestion:whyareyouafraidof

phones?”“It’snotallphones,”Isay,“justcellphones—it’snotevencellphones,it’sthe

signalstheysendandreceive.Normalphoneskeeptheirsignalstrappedincords,butcellphones just shoot them through theair.” Iglancearoundnervously. Isthereanotherdoctorlistening?Idon’twantthemtohearanythingtheythinkiscrazy.“Whyareyouaskingmethis?”“BecauseI’mapsychiatrist.”“Butnotmypsychiatrist;notanymore.”“I have arranged a research agreement with the hospital,” he says. “I have

limitedaccesstoallpatients,pendingdoctorapproval.”“AndDr.Littleapprovedyourvisittome?Hedoesn’tseemtolikeyou.”“AndIdon’tlikehim,”saysVanek,shrugging.“Thankgoodnesswemanage

toactlikeprofessionalsregardless.”Devonhadacellphone.Everythinghappenedbecauseofacellphonesignal.

Is that the switch that lets themcontrolme—anexternal signal fromanearbyphone? I smile. That might be a good thing—if they have to use an outside

source, thatmeansIdon’thaveatransmitteractuallyonme.ThatmeansIcanescape and be free, as long as I stay clear of their signals. This could be thebreakI’vebeenwaitingfor.“So?”askedVanek.“Whydoyouthinkyou’reafraidofcellphones?”Iclickmytongueandtakeanotherbiteofoatmeal.“I’mnotcrazy.”Vanek nods. “Saner words were never spoken. Tell me,Michael, have you

seenanymoreoftheFacelessMen?”I shakemy head. “Of course not. You toldme yourself they aren’t real.” I

clickmyteeth.“I’mnotcrazy.”Hesmilesthinly.“Twoweeksagoyouusedtheirrealityasevidenceofyour

sanity;nowyouuse theirunrealityasevidenceof thesame.Youcaneitherbecrazythenorcrazynow,butgiventhatyou’vementionedtheFacelessMenatallyouhave tobeoneor theother.”Hestandsup.“ThinkaboutyourstorymorecarefullythenexttimeyoutalktoDr.Little.”Hewalksaway, and I stare atmy tray.He’s right: I can’t claim tobecured

without acknowledging that I was sick, at least for a while. I nod, twice,searchingforananswer.“Medicinetime,”saysDevon,andIshybackreflexively.Willhiscellphone

gooff again?He sets a small plastic cupon the table next tome; there’s twoLoxitane in it, half green and half tan, like camouflage. “Everything goingokay?”“Great,” I say, picking up the cup. It doesn’tmatterwhat they think; I can

escapenow. Iclickmy teeth.“I’mgreat, thankyouforasking.” I swallow thepillsandwashthemdownwithapplejuice.It’stimetogetoutofhere.

EIGHT

SOMEONEWALKS THE HALLS at night. It’s not Shauna, the prettynurse,thoughIknowshe’sthereaswell;herfootstepsaresoftandgentle,likeshe’swearing slippers. I canhearhergoup anddown thehalls, checkingourvitalsandmetingoutdrugs.Butwhenshestops,andthehallsfallsilent,that’swhentheotherfootstepscome.They’reheavy,andloud,andthespacebetweenthemiswider;whoevertheybelongtohaslongerlegs,andalongerstride.Hisshoesclickonthefloorliketheticksofaclock.Iusemoresoapthantheotherpatients,scrubbingmyhairandbodyextrahard

tomakeup for the coldwater. I don’t dare use the hot, and I never go in theshowerswhensomeoneelse isalready there.Theycancontrolwhichspigot isconnectedtothecyanide,justliketheycancontrolwhichdevicesarewatchingme.I sit in the commons room,waiting forLucy,watching the patients and the

nursesandthedoctorsandwonderingwhotheyare.Iwatchthemwalkaround,all stiff limbsand floppy joints andbodies so solid theyblock theworld rightout.I’msurroundedbywaterandmeat,bydeadhairandslow,shufflingcircuits.I listen to them talk and the wordsmake no sense: tile. Tile tile tile tile tile.Wordsloseallmeaning.Iwonderhowthesecreaturescancommunicateatall.AndthenI’mback,andIwonderwhatitwasthatbotheredmesomuch.It’sbeenalmostthreeweekssinceLucycamein,andIhaven’tseenhersince;

IhavetoassumeTheygottoher.Ihavetofindher.IfIcanfigureoutthekeycodeforthegate,Icanescape.Istartbysettingupachairintheluncharea,withaclearviewofthegate,but

it’s too far away—Ihave pretty good eyesight, but at that distance everythingmeltstogetherandIcan’ttellonenumberfromanother.Ineedtogetcloser.Itry

walkingrightuptothenurseinthesideoffice,hopingtomakesmalltalkuntilsomeonewalksupandusesthekeypad,butIcan’tdoit—thenurse’scomputerisrightthere,justafewfeetaway.Icanfeelitlikeabuzzinmyhead,burrowingin,tryingtogetcontrol.Iwaveatthenurseandgobacktothecommonsroom.It’s theTVthateventuallygivesmemychance; irony’s likethatsometimes.

Everymorningat ten-thirtyDr.Lindaholdsagrouptherapysession in theTVarea,whereall thenicecouchesare;notonlydo they turnoff theTV,but thegroupisbigenoughthatitspillsjustslightlyintothehallway.Iwatchthemfromthecafeteria tables, calculating thedistance. If Ipulloverachairandsit rightthere,I’dhaveaperfectviewofthekeypadfromonlyadozenfeetaway.Istandupanddragmychairacrosstheroom.“Hello,Michael,”saysLinda.“Thankyouforjoiningusthismorning.”Isitdown.“Hi.”“Thisisasocialtherapygroup,Michael.Todaywe’retalkingaboutjobsand

responsibility.”“Ihadajob,”saysSteve.“Iworkedinabookstore.Icouldsellanything.”“That’swonderful,”saysLinda.“Tellusaboutit.”I zoneoutwhileSteve talks about how important heused to be, and subtly

turnaneyetothehallway.Icanseethekeypadclearly.AllIneedisforsomeonetouseit.“Icouldsellanyoneamystery,”saysSteve.“Itdidn’tmatterwhattheycame

infor,Icouldsendthemoutwithamystery.”“Whydoyouthinkthatwas?”“Theyalwayswanttoknowhowitends.”Devonwalkspastme toward thenurses’office.Hestopsandchatswith the

ladyby thecomputer. Justuse thegate!He says something too low forme tohear.Shelaughs.Iflexmyarm:open,close,open,close.“What were some of your responsibilities in the bookstore, Steve?” asks

Linda.“Idideverything,”hesays.“Ihadtodoeverythingbecausenobodyelseever

didanything.”“Didyouhelpopenthestore?”“No,themanagerdidthatbeforeIgotthere.”

Thenursebythecomputersayssomethingelse,andit’sDevon’sturntolaugh.Hewavesgood-byeandreachesforthekeypad.6.8.5.Anothernursejoinshim,blockingmyview.“Michael?”I spinmyheadaround,myheart beating rapidly.Linda and thepatients are

lookingatme.Do theyknowwhat Iwas lookingat?Do theyknowwhat I’mdoing?“Didyouhaveajobbeforeyoucamehere,Michael?”“Um,yeah,”Isay.Itrytosoothemynervesandpullmyselftogether.Inod.“I

workedinabakery.Mueller’sBakery,theplacewiththecoaloven.”“I’venevereatenthere,”saysLinda,“butitsoundsdelicious.Whatdidyoudo

there?”I hear the gate click;Devon’s already through, and Imissed the numbers. I

clickmyteethafewtimes.“Ihelpedloadandunloadstuff,likebagsofflourandtraysofbreadandstuff like that.Mr.Muellerdideverythingbyhand—all themixingand thekneadingandeverything, like in theolddays.Nomachinesatall.”“Itsoundslikeyouhadalotofworktodo,then,”saysthedoctor.“Whatwas

yourfavoritepart?”“Don’t answer that,” says a voice. “You don’t have to tell them anything

without a warrant.” I look around, but it doesn’t look like any of the otherpatientssaidanything.Iflexmyarm.WhyamIflexingmyarm?“IwishI’dworkedinabreadstore,”saysSteve.“Ihatedthatbookstore.”“Pleaseberespectful,Steve,”saysLinda.“It’sMichael’sturntotalk.”Ilookbackatthegate.There’snobodythere.Iglancetheotherwayandsee

anotherorderlywalkingtowardusfromthebackrooms.Ishecomingtous,ortothegate?IturnbacktoLinda.“Myfavoritepartwastheheat.”Itrytodragitout—to

tell her everything I can about the bakery so that she can’t ask any morequestionsuntilI’mdone,andnothingcandistractmefromthekeypad.“Iknowthatsoundsweird,butI likedit.”Inod.“Itwashotanddry, likeacaveinthedesert,andyoucouldjustsitthereandenjoyit,theheatandthesmellofyeast,

and pretend you were a lizard hiding under a rock. Maybe a dinosaur.” Theorderly walks past us to the gate; I turn my head just far enough to see thekeypad,andtrytomakeitlooklikeI’mstaringintonothing.“Iusedtostandinthe back, in the red dark by the ovens, and listen to the sound of the wallspopping as the heat pressed out against them.” 6. 8. “I’d pretend I was in aballoon, fillingupwithhotair,andeventually I’d just floataway.”5.HisarmmovesandImissthelastnumber—a1?Maybea2?Ithadtobeoneofthose.6851.Or2.IfIenterthewrongcode,willitsetoffanalarm?“Wow,”saysLinda.“That’sverynice.I’mgladyouhadsomethingaboutyour

jobyouliked.”“Buildingscan’tfloataway,”saysSteve.“Please,Steve,it’sMichael’sturn.”“I’mdone,”Isay,nodding.Iflexmyarmagain.“Thankyouforsharingwithus,”saysLinda.“Edward,howaboutyou?”The

frizzy-haired guy looks up, terrified, and Linda coaxes him gently. “Did youhaveajob,Edward?”I keep my eye on the gate, waiting. No one comes. After several minutes

someonestepsintoviewonthefarsideofthegate—thesamegraysuit,thesameblurreddistortednothingwherehisfaceshouldbe.Hehasnoeyes,but I can feelhisgazeboring intome. I lookbackandwe

watch each other for a moment, waiting. I can feel my breathing, calm andcontrolled.Wesaynothing.He’sthesameoneasbefore;somehowIcantell,Icanrecognizehim,asifI’veseenhimahundredtimes.Hewalksaway.I have toget out tonight. I can’twait.Theyknow I’mhere, and theyknow

I’veseenthem.Ifthey’regoingtomakeamove,they’llmakeitsoon.Ihavetomakeminefirst.

***

ILIEAWAKE, listening to the footsteps. I have to time this very carefully.FirstIhearShaunagoby,softshoespaddinglightlyonthehard,slickfloor.Herfootstepsgrowlouderasshenears,thensofterasshedisappearsdownthehall.Iwait.Oneof theotherpatients issinging, tunelessanddistant.Iheara trainin

thebackground,abassrumblingthatgrowsandfades.Silence.Then the other footsteps come, echoing loudly in the hallway. I see a light

bobbingupanddown thewalls, andadark figurepauses topeek in the smallwindowinmydoor.Iclosemyeyesandtrytobreathesteadily,fakingsleep.Thefootstepsmoveon,andwhenIopenmyeyesIseethelightrecedingdownthehallway.Islipoutofbedsilently,repeatingthenumbercodeinmymind:6851.6852. I don’t knowwhichone to try first.The footsteps in the corridor pauseoccasionally, as the dark figure peeks through the doors. When they stopcompletely, I grip the doorknob tightly, turning it slowly and carefully so itmakesnosound.Ihearnoreaction.Iopenthedoorquietlyandreleasetheknobjustasslowly,soitdoesn’tsnapbackwithaclick.Thehallisempty.Inodandslipout,closingthedoorbehindme.IcrouchasI

walk,duckingbelowthewindowsineachdoorIpass.Aheadofmeisthegate,andnexttoitthenurses’office.Brightlightfloodsintothehall.HowcanIgetpastthemwithoutbeingseen?The hall fills with a faint clicking noise and I freeze, looking behind me.

Nothing.Where’s it coming from? I flexmy arm, thinking, and I realize I’mclickingmyteeth.Clickclickclickclickclickclick.Iclampmyhandovermymouth and find that I’m nodding, up and down, up and down. I take a deepbreathandforcemyselftoholdstill.WhyamIdoingthis?It’slikemybodyismovingonitsown,completelyoutofmycontrol.It’sThem—theyknowI’mescaping,andthey’retryingtotakeover.Istartwalkingagain,andmyarmisflexingattheelbow:backandforth,back

andforth.IthitsthewallwithasoftthudandIgrabitwithmyotherhand,tryingtoholditstill,butnowI’veletgoofmyteeth.Clickclickclickclick.I stagger forward,keepingmyeyeson thegate; itbobsupanddownasmy

headnodsfuriously.Fivestepscloser.Tenstepscloser.Ihearfootstepsbehindme,faraway;Ispinaround,butthere’snothingbehindme.He’sstillaroundthecorner—hurryup!Fivemoresteps.Fivemoreafter that.Myarmflexesagainstmychest,held

tightlybymyotherarm.Clickclickclickclickclick.Mybodyisturningagainstme,partbypart,asTheirburiedcontrolsystembattersitselfagainstmymind.

Fivemoresteps.I’malmosttothenurses’office.Ireleasemyarmandgrabmymouth,shovingmyfingersbetweenmyteethto

mufflethenoise;ifIkeepawayfromthewallsmyarmwon’thitanythingandgive me away. My teeth keep biting, too soft to draw blood. The footstepsbehindmegrowlouder.Icreepforward,noddingwildly,myeyeshotwithtears.Icanjustseeintothenurses’office,peeringaroundthecorner.Awomansits

at a desk, her back tome—notShaunabut someone else, a largewoman I’veneverseen.Where’sShauna?Thismeanstherearethreepeople,nottwo;Idon’tknow if I can hide from them all. The footsteps behindme pause, and I lookback.Nothing.Iholdmybreathandslipforward,myarmflailingthroughspace,andwalkrightpasttheopendoor.Thenursedoesn’tturnaround.Fivemoresteps,softasawhisper.On the far side of the door I sink to my knees, ducking below the open

window to the office. The computermonitor looms aboveme, buzzing softly.Myteethmoveupanddown,upanddown.Ireachthegate.Myrightarmflexes.HowcanIevenenterthecode?I takemy hand out ofmymouth and gritmy teeth tightly, half ofmy jaw

musclesfightingtheothers.Theymakenonoise.Iusemylefthandtoguidemyflailingrightdowntothefloor,whereIkneelonittoholditinplace.Thefootstepsstartagain.He’llbeatthecorneranymoment.Ireachoutwith

my lefthand toward thekeypad,andmyfingersbuzzwhen theygetclose.Ofcourseit’selectronic!Icursesilently.They’llknowI’mheretheinstantItouchit!Ican’thelpit—there’snootherway.Iforcemyhandforwardandtypeinthecode:685…doIhitthe1orthe2?Thefootstepsbehindgrowlouder.Justdoit!2.Thelatchclickssoftly,andthegateswingsopen.Iriseupfrommyknees

anddartforward,myrightarmswingingwildly;itcracksagainstthegateandIgrunt,tryingtoholdbackthepain.There’sanoisefromtheoffice,andIclosethegatebehindme.Thelatchclicksloudly.“Who’sthere?”Thehallwaybeyond thegatestretchesoutonbothsides,and Idive right to

stayoutofsight.Igrabmyarmtoholditstillandstaggerforwardpastarowofoffices,eachonedarkandempty.AtthefirstintersectionIpause,thinking.

ShouldIjustleave?OrshouldItrytolearnsomethingfirst?There’s something going on here; that much is obvious. If I run I can get

away,andifIrunfastImightgetawayforgood—leavethecity,disappear,andnever come back.Maybe I could find a farm somewhere, far away from cellphonesandTVsandanythingelse theycoulduse tofindme.But the thing is,whatifI’mnottheonlyonethey’retryingtofind?APlanthisbig,aconspiracythis ubiquitous, doesn’tmake any sense if it’s all focusedonme. I’mnot thatimportant—Vanek is right about thatmuch.Theymust beplanning somethinglarger,andwhatever it is, thekeymightberighthere, in thishospital. If Icanfindoutwhatitis,Imightbeabletofigureoutawaytostopthem.Clickclickclickclick.I’mlosingcontrolofmyjawagain.Ipeekaroundthe

cornerandfeelastaboffear—it’sacafeteria,buzzingwithelectricityfromaseaof fluorescent lights, refrigerated counters, vending machines, microwaves. Ipullback,pantingandnodding,andleanagainst thewall.WheredoIgofromhere?Ican’tgoforward.Evenifthetwodoctorschattingatatabledon’tseeme,the

deviceswill—theFacelessMenwillknowI’mthere the instant Istepoutpastthewall. I turn back andmove softly down the hall, looking at the names oneachofficedoorasIpass:Skarstedt.Beisinger.Zobell.Ireachtheturnofftothesecurewingandpause,listening.“IswearIheardthegate.”“Butwe’retheonlyoneshere.”Idon’trecognizeeithervoice.Ipeekaroundthecorner,clenchingmyjawas

tightasIcan.Theheavynurseisstandinginthedoorwayoftheoffice,talkingtoablack-cladsecurityguard.Neitherislookinginmydirection.“Thejanitor,maybe?”“Heknowshehastocheckinwithme.”Itakethechanceandrunpastthegate,steppinglightly.Therearemoredoors

thisway,andadarkcornerattheendofthehallthatmightbeastairway.“Wait,whatwasthat?”“I’mcallingthisin;something’sgoingon.”Thegateclangsbehindmeassomeonecomesthrough,andIracepastmore

doors:Olsen.Layton.Little. I duck intoDr.Little’sdarkenedoffice, clutching

myarmtightlytokeepitfromswinging;myheadnodssomuchIcanbarelyseestraight. Icrouchagainst thewallas thesecurityguardrunspastmedownthehall—thesameloud,heavystepsIheareverynight.Iglancearoundtheroom,desperateforanythingthatcouldhelpmeescape—Theofficeiscoveredwithphotographs:pinnedtothewalls,spreadacrossthe

desk,spillingtothefloor.Portraitstoodimtosee.Myeyesfocusandmypupilswiden,adaptingtothedark,andslowlyI’msurroundedbyfaces—no,notfaces.Heads. I choke down a cry, stifling my own terror: every photo is a corpse,mangledandbloody,thefacetornoffandbashedin.Istaggerbackandhitthewall,pantingwithterror.They’reeverywhere.Information—I’mhereforinformation.Istepbacktothetable,jawclenched,

armsfoldedtightlyaroundme,andlookatthephotos.Eachoneismarkedwitha date: twomonths ago. Threemonths ago.One. Ten victims, just likeKellysaid,startingeightmonthsagoandending—fornow—rightinthemiddleofmytwomissingweeks.Istareatthemostrecentphoto:amaninabrownjumpsuit,likeajanitor.BRANDONWOODS,saysthelabel.CHEMCOMINDUSTRIALCHEMICALS.JustliketheFBIguysaid.Hisfacehasbeenviciouslydestroyed,carvedwithaknifeorbashedwithahammeror—Idon’tevenwanttothinkaboutwhatcouldhavedoneit.JUNE27,itsays.Rightinthemiddleofmymissingmemories.Ihearvoicesoutside,butnoonelooksin.Thedoor’sstillajar,butIdon’tdare

closeit;Iduckoutofview,crouchingbyafilingcabinet.Myfilesareprobablyinit.Iwaitforthevoicestorecedeagainandslowlypressthebuttononthethirddrawer:NthroughS.Iflipthroughthefiles,pulloutmyown,andscanthroughthenotes:MydosageofLoxitaneisn’tworkingandneedstobeincreased.Iresisttreatment,butrecentlyjoinedasocialtherapysession.Idisplayviolenttendenciesandneedtobewatchedveryclosely.Nearthebackisahalf-filledreportonDr.Little’sdiagnosis:

MichaelShipmanwas treated forgeneralizedanxietydisorderearly lastyear, was deemed stable, and was released in early July with aprescriptionforKlonopin.Duringtherapyandobservationheshowednosignsofactivedelusion.Whilehisschizophreniamayhavebeenpresent

muchearlier,weestimatethatitdidnotbecomeacuteuntilapproximatelyNovember,basedoninterviewswithhisfatherandemployer.…

I stop reading. November was eight months ago, right about the time that Istoppedgoingtotherapy.RightaboutthetimethatIstoppedtakingKlonopin.RightaboutthetimethattheRedLinestartedkilling.“Freeze!”shoutsthesecurityguard,andsuddenlyhe’srightthere,fillingthe

door,hisTaser inmyface.Istepawayandraisemyhands,butassoonasmyrightarmgetsfreeitfliesout,flexingandtwitching,andthesecurityguardfires.

NINE

EVERYMUSCLEINMYBODYbetraysme,somecontractingintorigidbricks,othersmelting into loose,useless jelly. I fall against somethingandhitthefloorintheflurryofpapersandbooks.“It’sapatient!Ithinkit’stheonefrom404—holycrap!”My arm twitches again, flying across me in a wide arc. I try to get my

bearings, butmy eyes are still adjusting to the light, andmy body is still toostunnedtotellupfromdown.Ican’tseemtomoveanythingonpurpose.“He’sstillmoving!”“Youshockedhim?”Thesecondvoiceissofter,morefeminine,anddripping

withworry.Shauna. Imanage torollmyheadafewinches to theside.“Whathappened?”“Heswungatme.Icouldn’tevenseewhoitwas.”“Howdidhegetouthere?”I try to speak, gurgle helplessly, and manage to raise my head. Almost

instantly someone grabs me from behind, locking me in a security hold thatkeepsmefullyimmobile.“CallDr.Little—tellhimoneofhispatientsbrokeintohisoffice.”Footsteps

crossthefloor,aphonerattlesinitshousing.Mytongueisloosernow,andmyheadisclearingup.“Ineed…”“Easy,man,”saystheguard.“How’syourlegs,canyouwalk?”“Ineedtogetoutofhere.”Clickclickclickclick.Myteethagain.“Justanswerthequestion:canyouwalk?Canwestandup?”“Hello,Dr. Little,” says Shauna. “I’m sorry to call you at this hour butwe

haveasituation.”Theguardpullsmetomyknees,pausesaminutewhileIgainmy balance, then pulls me to my feet. “One of the patients in lockdown

escaped,” says Shauna. “No, he didn’t get far, but he went straight for youroffice.It’sMichaelShipman.”IgettomyfeetandlookatShauna,butit’snotShauna—it’stheothernurse,

theheavyone from theoffice.She’solder,mid-fiftiesmaybe,with thickarmsandpermed,grayinghair.“Where’sShauna?”Theguardtightenshisgrip.“Who’sShauna?”“Thenightnurse,”Isay.“She’shereeverynight.”Istareat theothernurse,

confused.“Whoareyou?”Thenurselooksatme,butspeaksintothephone.“Heseemsverydisoriented,

Doctor.Yes,wewill.Allright,we’llseeyouinabit.”Shehangsup.“Where’s Shauna?” I’m scared now—a sick, vertiginous feeling inmy gut,

likeI’mabouttofallthroughthefloorintoavast,bottomlessnothing.“Whyarethesepicturesinhere?What’sgoingon?”“Easy,Michael,”saystheguard.“Let’sgetyoubackintoyourroom,okay?”“MaybeShauna’sthatgirlhekeepstalkingabout,”saysthenurse.“Shaunaisthenightnurse!”Ishout.“Whathaveyoudonewithher?”Thenurseglancesattheguardbehindme,worryetchedintoherface.“I’mthe

nightnurse,Michael.MynameisSharon.Doyourememberme?”I stare at her, remembering a face in the dark. Remembering peaches that

didn’ttastelikepeaches.“What’sgoingon?”“Let’sgethimbacktohisroom.”

***

THEREAREMOREGUARDSNOW, and they strap me into my bedwith thick leather restraints, just like before, ignoring my cries for help andinformation. They stop acknowledging me altogether, speaking as if I wasn’tevenintheroom.“Howdoyouthinkhegotout?”“Camestraightatmewithhisfist—Ihadtostunhim.”“Weshouldneverhavelethimoutofthesestrapsinthefirstplace.”“Don’ttellthemanything.”Ijerkmyheadup,lookingatthedoor,butallIseeareguardsandnurses.The

photosfromtheofficeflashthroughmymindlikeagruesomeslideshow.Thenervousspeculationoftheguardsmirrorsmyownthoughts:WhatifIreallyamakiller?Someone is killingpeople I hate, turning them into the image I’mobsessed

with.I feelmybodyshaking:ashiver,as if Iwascold,butI’msweatingwithheat.WhatwasIdoingbeforetheyfoundme?Thatday in thehospital, Ibitamanon thearmtrying toescape—Iliterally

toreintohimwithmyteeth.Whatkindofpersondoesthat?AndifI’mwillingtodothat,howmuchfurtherwillIgo?IsitpossiblethatI,corneredbyoneofThem,wouldlashoutfiercelyenoughtokill?CouldIhavedoneittosomanytimes?Italmostseemsimpossible—afterI’dkilledoneortwotheywouldhavestartedcomingaftermewithbiggernumbersandstrongerforce.Unlesstheyweren’tcomingaftermeatall.Maybeitwasmegoingafterthem.Kelly said therewere ten victims,maybemore.Nobody kills ten people in

self-defense—not that messily, and never in such a specific, consistent way.There’snothingdefensiveaboutthewaytheirfacesweretornoff.Thosepeoplehadbeenexecuted,orpunished.MaybeI’dgottensickofrunning,andItookthefighttothem.HowmanydidIkill?Clickclickclickclick.“Howdid you get through the gate?”The security guard is standing bymy

bed; other guards and nursesmove through the background, both inmy roomandoutinthehall,talkingandsearchingandscurryingaround.It’sthemiddleofthenight,butI’vestirredupabeehive.Ilookattheguard.“Thegatewasopen.”“Didsomeoneleaveitopenforyou?Isit…what’shername…Shauna?Did

shehelpyouescape?”“Nobodyhelpedme.”“WhoisShauna?”“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I say. “Howmany night nurses are

there?”Theguardfrowns.“We’recheckingthesecuritycamerasnow,soifsomeone

helpedyouwewillfindher.WhatwereyoulookingforinDr.Little’soffice?”“Iduckedintheretohidefromyou.”“Your own doctor’s office,” he says derisively, “with all of your files and

informationandeverything—andyouweretherecompletelybyaccident.”“Listen,” I say, “I don’t knowwho’s on Their side andwho’s not—I don’t

evenknow if I can trust you—but something is goingonhere, andweare allcaught in themiddleof it.Okay?There’ssomethingverybig,andveryweird,andifIcan’tfigureitoutIdon’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappen—toanyofus.”Dr. Little walks into the room, talking to another security guard. He looks

hastilydressed,andhisthinhairfloatsoverhisheadinanunkemptcloud.Theyprobablywokehimup.He’stalkingtoanotherguardashewalks.“Andnooneelsewasinthehallway?”“Noone,” says theotherguard.“JustDaveandSharonand thepatient.The

nightjanitorhadn’tevencomeyet.”“All right, thank you for showing me.” Dr. Little turns to me, pastes that

broad,patronizingsmileacrosshisface,andwalksto thebed.“Goodevening,Michael.Howareyoufeeling?”“Ididn’tknowitwasyouroffice,”Isayquickly.“Iwasjusttryingtogetout.I

didn’tmeantodoanything.”“Hecan’thavebeeninyourofficelong,Doctor,”saystheguard.“He’spretty

confused.”“Yes, thank you,” saysDr. Little, patting the guard on the arm. “I’ll take it

fromhere,thankyou.”The guard looks at me, looks at my restraints, then nods. “Thank you,

Doctor.”Heleavestheroom,andDr.Littlepullsupthelonechairandsits.“You were going through my files, Michael,” he says. “What were you

lookingfor?”“Juststairs,that’sall.Awayout.”“Youwereheadedforthestairs,butyouturnedaround.Theyshowedmethe

securityfootage.”“I…”AndnowI’mcaughtagain.IfItellhimwhatIwasreallylookingfor—

akeytotheconspiracy—he’llthinkI’meithercrazyortooclosetothetruth.Iwaverbackandforth;Ihavetotrustsomebodyeventually,right?Butnothim.

Whyhasn’tLucycomeback,or thereporter? Ican’tdo thisalone. Iclosemyeyesanddecidetosaynothing.“Icouldn’tgothatway.”“Were youworried about being seen?” he asks. “Andyet by doubling back

you had to pass by the two people whowere already alert and suspicious. Itmakesno sense to…”He stops, cockshis head to the side, and smiles. “Aha.Thecafeteria.”“What?”“Yourfearofelectronics.Youstoppedandturnedaroundwhenyougottothe

cafeteria—an entire room packed full of cords and transmitters andelectromagneticfields.Youcouldn’tbringyourselftogopastit.”Istaysilent,cursinghiminmyhead.HowamIsupposedtodeceivetheman

beingpaidtopsychoanalyzeme?Atleasthestilldoesn’tknowwhatI’mlookingfor.“That explains a lot,” he says, rubbing his chin. “The security tape does,

indeed,looklikeyouduckedintomyofficetohide.Idon’tknowhowyougotthegatecode,but that’seasyenough to fix.What I’mfarmorecuriousabout,Michael,aretheinvoluntarymusclemovements:howlonghavetheybeenthatbad?”My arm twitches against the restraint, and I shake my head and laugh; it

sounds bitter and hollow. “Are you honestly going to tellme you don’t knowanythingaboutthat?”“Of course I know about it,Michael, and I’ll dowhat I can, but I need to

knowhowlongit’sbeenthatbad.”“Soyouadmitit?”Ileanforwardindisbelief.“Youjustadmit,justlikethat,

thatyou’reapartofthis?”“Apartofwhat?”“You’recontrollingme!YouandtheFacelessMen—you’reworkingforthem,

you’regetting intomyheadand takingovermybody.”Clickclickclickclickclick.“Dammit,Icanbarelytalk!”“Please,Michael,”he says, reachingoutwithhishand, “please stay calm. I

assureyouthatnooneistryingtocontrolyourmovements.”Myarmtwitches.“Howcanyousaythat?Lookatme!”“Whatyou’reexperiencing iscalled tardivedyskinesia,”he says,“and it’sa

common side effect of Loxitane. You’re up to sixty milligrams a day, and areaction like this is not unheard of, though it does seem to have developedawfullyquickly.”“You’resayingthisisadrugreaction?”“Precisely: involuntarymovements, like theway you’re nodding right now,

and thewayyourarmwasswingingsowildlyon the tape. Iapologize fornotexplaining the possible side effects earlier, butwedidn’twant to frighten youunnecessarily and we really had no idea that anything would develop thisquickly. Your body may have a certain susceptibility to drugs. Anyway,dyskinesia is not debilitating, but it is bad, and I’m afraid we’ll have todiscontinuetheLoxitanealtogether.”“Wellthankgoodnessforthat.”“It’souronlychoice,really—yourdelusionsandhallucinationsarestillfully

present,sotheLoxitaneisclearlynotworking,andweobviouslycan’traisethedose.”“Wait!” I jerk forward as far as the restraints will let me. “I’m not

hallucinating,Doctor; you have to believeme. If Iwas thatmessed up in thehead,howcouldIhavegottenoutofhere?”“You’re delusional, Michael, but you’re not stupid. You’re actually very

intelligent—mostschizophrenicsare.Butyouaresick,andwearetryingtocureyou,andmedicationistheonlyway—”“You’regivingmemoredrugs?”“We’llbestartingyouonSeroquel,whichinsomewaysis—”“Yourdrugsaremakingmelosecontrolofmyownbody,soyou’regivingme

more?Whatareyoutryingtodotome?”“Loxitaneworkedonyourbrain’sdopaminereceptors,”hesayscalmly.“The

Seroquel will affect both dopamine and serotonin, so it should be moreeffective.”“Whydidn’tyoujuststartwiththatone,then?”“Becausethesideeffectsarepotentiallyworse,sowedon’tliketouseitifwe

don’thaveto.WetriedLoxitanefirstto—”“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead,“absolutelynot.Doyouhaveanyideawhatthis

isdoingtomybrain?”

“It’sfixingit.”“It’s frying it right inmy skull! Iwon’t even have a brain left by the time

you’redone.I’llbeavegetable.”“The mechanism of this drug is completely different from the last one, so

therewillbenooverlap ineffector risk;we’ll start at theminimumdoseandworkupuntilweseeapositiveresult.”“Oruntilitkillsme.”“The potential side effects of Seroquel are annoying but completely

nonlethal,”hesays,dismissingtheideawithawaveofhishand.“Thereissomesmallriskoftardivedyskinesiaagain,but,asIsaid,themechanismisdifferentand they shouldn’t overlap—plus, we’ll be watching you much more closelynowthatwe’veseenhowsensitiveyoucanbe.Ifthere’stheslightesthintofit,we’lldiscontinuetreatment.”“Andwhatelse?Yousaiditwasworsethanthefirstdrug.”“Seroqueldoublesasapowerfulsedative,”hesays.“Somepeopleevenuseit

recreationally.”“Andthat’sbad?”“Averypowerfulsedative,”hesays.“You’llsleeplikearock,butyou’llwake

upwith theworst hangover you’ve ever had.We can alleviate that somewhatwithotherdrugs,butIwanttoobserveyoufirst toseepreciselyhowitaffectsyou.”“No,”Isayagain,shakingmyhead.“Iwon’tletyoudoit.”“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,Michael.” He waves to the door, and

three largemale nurses come in.One of themhandsDr.Little a small plasticcup.“We’redoingthisforyourowngood,Michael.”Theygrabme,andItrytowrigglefree,butthebedrestraintsholdmetightlyinplace.“We’reonlytryingto help you.” The nurses holdme down, forcingmy head back untilmy facepointsupattheceiling.Dr.Littlesighs.“Ifyouinsist,we’reperfectlypreparedtodothisthehardway.”Iclampmymouthshut,buthesetsdownthepillandpicksupasyringe.The

nursesholdmeinplace,mymusclesrigidwiththeefforttobreakfree.Ifeelaprickinmyshoulder,alanceofsolidpainthatholdsforfive,six,sevenseconds,andthenfadestoadullache.ThenursesletgoandIjerkforward,thrashingand

coughing.“No!”Dr.Littlesmiles.“Very good,” he says. “I trust that in the future you’ll be much more

cooperative,butrestassuredthatwecandothiseverytimeifwehaveto.”Hesmilesagain, and theybegin to fileout. “The sedativewill likelykick inveryquickly—sleepwell,andI’llseeyouagaininthemorning.”Theyturnoutthelights,butIcanseedimshapesandoutlinesfromthefaint

illuminationdownthehall.Isitinbed,panting,tryingtodecidewhattodo,butthere’s nothing—I’m trapped, physically and mentally. I can already feel myheadgrowheavierasthesedativegoestowork.Iscream.Theworlddims.There’sashufflingsoundfromthehall;athick,wetslapping,likeamop.A

snuffling,slurpingsound.Ifightthesedationandliftmyhead,forcingmyeyestofocusonthedoor,andalowshadowcoalescesintoasolidform—slickwhiteskinreflectingthedistant lightsfromtheendofthehall.It turnsat thedoor,atranslucent membrane stretched tight over grotesque muscles—a giant whiteworm,likeamaggotoragrub,almosttwofeetthickandstretchingfarbackintothehall.Itsheadisahorridringofteethandslime,moreofaholethanamouth;itraisesup,asiftastingtheair;Iholdmybreath,stillasstone,helplessinmyrestraints.Willitcomeinormoveon?Myeyesaredimming.Thethingcrawlsintotheroom,wrigglinghorridly,andIfighttostayawake.DoIscream?Idon’tthinkIcan;mythroatfeelsthickandheavy.The thinggets closer.Myheadbuzzes anddeforms;my eyes tear andburn

andblacken.Icanhearitinchingcloser,slickskinslappingthefloor.ThenIhearnothing.

TEN

DARKNESS. SILENCE. ALL SENSE IS GONE, replaced withsomethingelse—somekindofdeeper feeling,aknowing.TheEarthshiftsandgroans;currentsofenergyrippleandflow.Iamfreeandtrappedatonce.Iamancient and powerful, a thing beyond time. But I have nowhere to go, andnowherelefttohide.Soundisthefirsttoreturn,adeep,distantreverberation.Iplungeintoitlike

an ocean, hearing for the very first time, exploring each new sound, but tooquickly the sounds grow harsh and violent—high shrieks, piercing cracks,unintelligiblehowlsofmindless,brayingbeasts.Physicalsensationscomenext,heat and cold and pressure, pokes and jabs and scrapes and scratches thatthreaten to tearmeapart.Whatare theydoing tome?Before thequestionhastime to form I’m assaulted by sight—burning lights andwaves of devastatingcolor.Ireceivesightmerelytobeblinded.IblinkatthepainandrealizeIhavesomethingtoblink.WhereamI?WhatamIdoing?Iambeingsqueezedintoaball.Theworldbitesmewithjaggedteeth.Ihave

become…I’minacave—adeep,darkpit.Iwillriseupandcomeintoaworldof…of

emptyhouses.Longstreetsofnothing,ofhollowhomeswherenoone lives. Istruggletoopenmyeyes,bracingmyselffortheshockoflight,andthroughmytearsawallswimsintoview—grayandbare.That’snotright.Itshouldbewood.I’m ina room, tied toabed. I’m ina…What’s theword?Hospital. I’m inahospital.MynameisMichaelShipman.I’minPowellPsychiatric.Iamhurtandtired

andcold.Dr.Little—Irememberthenamenow—gavemesomekindofdrug.Sero…

something.Serotonin?Somebodysaidthatword.Myownthoughtsassaultme,pushing throughmybrain likebloodthroughswollenmuscle. I try tograbmyhead,butmyarmsaretied.Therewassomethinginhere,somethingIwasafraidof—I jerk back in a spasm of fear, remembering the giant maggot. I look

desperately at my body, patting my legs and stomach where I can reach,searching for some sign of its passage; bitemarks or slime trails or anythingelse.I lookwildlyaroundtheroom,but there’snothingthere.Is itbehindme?Underthebed?Istrainatthestrapsonmyarms,craningmynecktoseearoundtheedgesofthebed,butthere’snothingtosee.It’sgone.Ihavenoideawhatitdid.Was it real? Iwant it tobe fake. I consider thedoctor’sdiagnosis—thatmy

brain is screwed up and sees things that aren’t really there. I don’t want thatthingIsawtobereal.Iwantittobeallinmyhead.Ishiverreflexively,theinvoluntarytwitchyougetwhenyoutouchsomething

disgusting.Thethoughtthatthemaggotcouldbeinmyheadalmostmakesmegag with revulsion—and then I remember the faces of the Red Line victims,hollowedoutandbloody.Whatifthemaggotswereintheirheads,laidtherelikeeggs,nestledupintheirsinuses,andthenatetheirwayoutwhentheyhatched?The thoughtmakesmegagagain,andI throwup; I’mstill tieddown,and thevomitcoversmychestbecausethere’snowaytogetitanywhereelse.It can’t be true. It can’t be. I feel a wriggle inmy head, as if something’s

writhingagainstmybrain,and I throwupagain. I forcemyself to thinkaboutsomethingelse, aboutanythingelse, about thewalls and theceiling, about thenursesandtheotherpatients,aboutDr.LittleandDr.VanekandeverythingIcanpossiblythinkof.TheysaythatI’mcrazy:whatifthey’reright?Dr.Vaneksaidthatmyhallucinationsareprobablybasedonsomekindofrealexperience;thatmybrainisconstructingitsartificialsightsandsoundsoutofoldmemoriesandemotions,filteredthroughthelensofimaginationandfantasy.Ifthat’strue,thenthe things I think are real could potentially be explained away, the samewayyou’dinterpretadream.Themaggotwouldn’thavetobereal.ButhowcanIpossiblydecidewhatisrealandwhat’snot?Themerethought

of it hurtsmyalready-throbbingbrain.There’sShauna, thenightnurse,who Ithoughtat firstwasLucy.NobodyelseknowswhoI’mtalkingabout.Withnovisitsfrommygirlfriend,didIcreateafakeone?Andthenthere’stheFacelessMen,andthepileoffacelesscorpses.Ithought

beforethatthecorpsesmightbearesultofmybattlewithThem,butwhatifit’sthe otherway around?What if I saw a Red Line victim somewhere andwastraumatizedbytheexperience,andmybraincreatedtheFacelessMenasawayofdealingwithit?Thatmustbeit—Isawthemonthenews,backwhentheveryfirstbodywasfound……exceptthatIdon’twatchthenews.Idon’twatchTVatall,andthepeople

whodo—mydad,myboss—don’tevertalktome.TheonlypersonIreallytalkto is Lucy, and of course Dr. Vanek, and something like a serial killer nevercomesupinthoseconversations.It’sentirelypossiblethatIsawthosefacelesscorpses sometime in thepast and simplyblocked themall frommyconsciousmind, waiting for the day my subconscious dredged them up and created adelusion.Mybiggestblockoflostmemoryisfromthattwo-weekperiodbeforeIwasputinthehospital,butmymemorybeforethatisanythingbutperfect.Doesanyone remember 100 percent of everything?Can I account formyself everyhourofeveryday?ButhowandwhywouldIevercomeintocontactwiththeRedLine’svictims,

unlessIwasthekiller?My head nods, and I think about the horror of my own body’s rebellion.

Someonewascontrollingme—nomatterwhatexcuseDr.Littlecomesupwith,Ifeltit.Mybodywasnotmyown.Whatifsomeonereallycancontrolmybody,fully and completely, and they’re using it to kill people? What if I’m just apuppet,dancingon theendofastring,whileanameless, facelesskillersits inthedarkandcontrolsmyeverymove?Cellphones—that’sgottobehowTheydoit.Cellphonesandcomputersand

TVs.DoIreallyhavesomethinginmybrain?DoTheycontrolmethroughachip

inmyskull?Orisitsomethingworse—istherereallysomekindofgrubinsideme,drinkingmyblood,nestlingagainst themotorfunctionsofmycerebellum,pickingupasignalandpassingiton,wearingmybodylikeaglove?

Thatmaggotwasreal—Isawit,Iheardit.Ican’tstayhere,knowingitmightcomeback.Anursecomesintotheroom:Devon.Hehasatray.Mythroathurtsfromdisuse.“Breakfastalready?”“Yeah,butlet’sgetyoucleanedupfirst.”Heusesatoweltosopupmyvomit.

“Yousleptlikealog,man.”I cough at phlegm, trying to clearmy throat. “It’s the drugs.” Cough. “Dr.

Littlegavemesomethingnewlastnight.”“Seroquel,”saysDevon.“Ihearitreallykicksyouinthebutt.”Hegivesmea

swallowofwater througha straw,andmy throat starts tocleara little. “IalsohearyouwentAWOLonuslastnight.”“Ihavetogetout.”Iclosemyeyesandfallbackagainstthebed.“There’sno

pointinhidingitanymore.Ihavetogetoutofhere.”“Lunchtime,”he says,holdingouta spoonfulofoatmeal.“They’regoing to

unlockyouagaininacoupleofhours.”“Thatsoon?”“You’re not dangerous; once they figure out how you got through the gate

they’lljustpatchuptheholeandletyouwalkaroundagain.”Heholdsthespooncloser,andItakethebite.HescoopsupsomemorewhileIchew.“Howdidyougetthroughthegate,anyway?”“Iwatchedpeopleenterthecode.”“Really?”Helaughs.“That’sit?”I nod, for real this time, though I feel guilty doing voluntarily what my

puppeteerforcesmetodoagainstmywill.There’snoharmintellingthemaboutthecode—they’regoingtofigureitouteventually,andatleastthiswayIcangetout of the restraints sooner. I take another bite, chew, and swallow. “I sat inLinda’ssocialtherapyclassandwatchedpeoplegoinandout;afteracoupleofpeopleIhadaprettygoodideawhatthecodewas.”Devongrins.“You’rekidding.Ican’tbelieveitwasthateasy.”I shake my head. “Most of the patients in here don’t have the focus for

somethinglikethat.”“Oh, they’vegot thefocusall right—you’veneverseenpeople this focused.

Theyjustdon’thavethepresenceofmind.”Hefeedsmeanotherbite, frowns,

and looks me in the eye. “You’re different than most of our patients, Mike.You’re…clearer.Moreclear-minded,likeyouknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Notrightnow,”Isay.“Thosedrugsarekillingme;IfeellikeIjustdranka

bathtubfullofgin.”“You’llgetusedtoit,”hesays.“YouknowSteve?He’sonSeroquelandhe’s

fine.”“Steve,thebookstoreguy?”“Yeah.”Steve’s a littleweird, but he’s not a twitchingmess. I take another bite and

think,tryingtofindawayout.Devon’salotmoretalkativethannormal.Ishakemy head at the next proffered bite, and look at him carefully. I need to trustsomebody.Whynothim?“You’renot like theothernurseshere, either,” I say. “Why’dyoubecomea

nurse?”“I … just like it, I guess.” He laughs suddenly. “Plus there was this girl,

Rebecca,who Iwent to high schoolwith. She signedup for all these nursingclasses in college, and I didn’t really knowwhat Iwanted to do and shewasreallycute,soIsignedupforsomeofthesameones.”Hesmiles.“Thensheranoffwith an artist, like a sculptor I think, but by then Iwas hooked. I just…reallylikednursing.”“Youlikehelpingpeople.”“Yeah.”“Andyoustudiednursingingeneral,orpsychiatryspecifically?”“Thereisn’treallyapsychiatricnursingspecialty,atleasttherewasn’tatmy

school.I—”“Sohowmuchdoyouknowaboutthepatientshere,andthediseasestheysay

wehave?”Helooksatmeamoment,asifsurprisedbythequestion.Hestirstheoatmeal

inthebowl.“I’veworkedherealmosttwoyears,soI’vepickedupalot,butIdon’thaveadiagnosticbackground,ifthat’swhatyou’reasking.”“Soyoulikehelpingus,thepeople,butyouhavenorealconnectiontothe—”“Mike,”hesays,cuttingmeofffirmly,“whereareyougoingwiththis?”Itakeabreath.“IfIcouldconvinceyouthatI’mnotcrazy—thattherereallyis

aconspiracyhereatthehospital,andI’mbeingheldprisoneraspartofit—whatwouldyoudo?”Hestaresatme.“Iknowthisisaverydifficultquestion,”Isay,“andI’msorryIhavetoaskit,

butthere’snothingelseIcandorightnow.I’msorry.You’vegottotellme:whatwouldyoudo?”Helaughssoftlyandshakeshishead.“LookslikeIneverlearn,doI?”“Devon…”“Whatisityouseeagain?Menwithoutfaces,orsomethinglikethat?”“Haveyouseenthem?”“Andawomantoo,right?Anextranightnurse?”“Theyarereal—themen,atleast.Idon’tknowwhattothinkaboutthenurse.”“Yeah,”hesays,nodding,“yeah,Idothissometimes.”Heholdsupabiteof

oatmeal—notofferingittome,juststaringatit.“You’resharp,Mike,youreallyare,andsometimesItakethatforgranted.”“Youdon’tbelieveme.”Hesighs.“You’resick,andwe’retryingtomakeyoubetter.Don’tyouthink

you’dbehappier inaworldwherenobody’schasingyouall the time,andyoudon’thavetohideandschemeandrunaway?Don’tyouwantthat?”“I want that more than anything,” I hiss. “You think I like being chased,

trapped in here with FacelessMen and phantomwomen and the damn clockradio watching everything I do? You know what came in here last night? Amaggot—agiantmaggot,biggerthanyouare,slitheringrightthroughthatdoor.OfcourseIwishitwasn’treal—I’dgiveanythingtomakeitnotreal—butwhatifitis?Whatiftherereallyissomethingsinistergoingon,withthegovernmentoraliensor…Idon’tknow.Something.Andwhatifwecoulddosomethingtostopit?Whatwouldyoudo?”Hestirstheoatmeal,backandforth,watchingitfoldandcurve.Hescoopsup

abiteandholdsitouttome.“ComeonMike,let’sjusteatyourlunch,okay?”“Thisisserious!”Heholdsoutthebite.“Let’sjusteat.”“Idon’twantany.”“That’sokay,”hesays.“Sorry it’s justoatmeal—that’sprettymuch theonly

foodwehavefor,uh,restrainedpatients.Anyonethathastobefedbyhand.”Hestandsup.“I’llseeyouatdinner.”“Idon’twantdinner!”Heturnsandwalksout.“Iwanttogetoutofhere!”

***

DINNER ISMOREOATMEAL, and this time an extra nurse comes tobackupthefirstandmakesureIeat.Ifightthemforthefirstfewbitesbuttheyholdmedownandforceitin,andeventuallyIgiveupandeatitall.ItrytoimagineI’meatingpeaches,butitdoesn’twork.

ELEVEN

EVERYNIGHTDR.LITTLEARRIVESwithanotherpillandagangofguardsandorderliestohelpforceitdownmythroat.Ifighthimeverytime,andafterafewminutestheyinevitablyresorttotheshot,buttheyneverstoptrying.Isleep every night like a corpse, and I awake each morning from a vast,primordialvoid.Dr.Littletakesmeintothehall,flankedbythebiggestorderlyI’veeverseen.

“Iwanttoshowyousomething,Michael.”WewalktowardthegateandIstopjust shyof theofficedoor.Thewindow in thewall, formerlyhome to the tophalf of amonitor, is nowadornedwith a largermonitor, computer speakers, aclockradio,andaphone.Thegatelooksthesameasever,butIdon’tdaregetanycloser.Dr.Littleturns,smiles,andbeckonswithhishand.“Comecloser.”“Nothankyou.”He clasps his hands together and stands there, smug and satisfied. “That is

preciselymypoint,”hesays.“Asyoucansee,we’veupgradedoursecurity:thegatecodeisnowchangeddaily,andtheofficenurseandIaretheonlyones,ingeneral, who know it. Anyone passing through the gate will have to ask forassistance,whichnotonlyreducesthenumberofleaksbuthasthehelpfulsideeffect of putting at least one extra person in the hall every time the gate isopened;thiswillhelpblockyourviewofthekeypad.”Hegesturesattheshelfofelectricdevices.“These,ofcourse,posenothreattoanyoneatall,butwehavethe feeling they’ll serve tokeepourprimarysecurity risk—namely,you—wellawayfromthegatealtogether.Withtime,medication,andtherapy,weofcoursehopethatyourfearofelectronicswillgoaway,butbythenweimagineyou’llbemuch less of an escape risk anyway.”He smiles, his eyes buggy andmassive

behindhisglasses.Ireachtowardtherowofdevices, tentatively, testingthem.Myhandbuzzes

as it gets close, a tiny tremor. I pull it back quickly. “Is the code postedanywhere?”“Obviouslywe’renotgoingtotellyouthat.”“But if it’s outside the gate somewhere, it doesn’tmatter if I know or not,

right?”“You’reaveryresourcefulman,Michael;eventhescantdetailsI’vejustgiven

youaretoolsyou’reprobablyalreadyusingtoplananotherbreakout.Assuming,ofcourse,thatthedetailsI’vegivenyouaretrue.”Hesmiles.Iwatchhim, trying to readsomething fromhis facebesides thatmaddening

smile.Ishereallylayeringliesandhalf-liesjusttoconfuseme?AmIreallythatdangerous?Iescapedonce,yes,butIdidn’tgetfar,Ididn’tdoanything,Ididn’thurtanyone—ButwhatifhethinksIdid?IftheFacelessMentrulyaren’treal—ifthatreallyisjustadelusion—thenDr.

Littleisworriedaboutsomethingelsealtogether.Abnormallyworried.Iturntofacehimdirectly.“TellmeabouttheRedLineKiller.”Hiseyesnarrowandhisbrowcreases,thoughthesmileneverleaveshislips.

“Why?”“People keep talking about him,” I say, “and your desk was covered with

picturesofhisvictims.”“I’mafraidthere’snothingtotell,beyondthefactsalreadyavailable.”“Whatdoeshehavetodowithme?”“Withyou?”Istepcloser,onewaryeyeonthewallofelectronics.“Doyouthinkit’sme?

ThatIkilledallthosepeople?Isthatwhyyou’rekeepingmeinhere?”He smiles and shakes his head. “Michael, you’re far from my only case.

Anythingyouhappenedtoseeonmydeskisnotautomaticallyrelatedtoyou.”“Buttheirfacesaremissing!”Isay.“Ofcoursethat’srelatedtome—Imade

thatconnectionimmediately,surelyitmusthavecrossedyourmindaswell.”“There are some superficial connections, yes, but it’s nothing. The FBI has

askedmetolookovertheirfiles;Ihavenoexperienceincriminalprofiling,butI

havemoreexperiencewiththe…localpsychiatriccommunitythananyoneelse,andtheythoughtsomethingmightstandout.”Hesmiles.“Sofarnothinghas.”“Nothingbutme.”“Perhaps.”Istepforwardagain.“There’ssomethingyou’renottellingme.”He opens his mouth to answer, but in that moment the computer speakers

chirp loudlyandmyheadexplodes inpain. Iclutchmyears, tryingnot to fallover,andsomewherenearbyacellphonerings.Armsgrabme,supportingmyweight,andmyentirebodyisaknotofagony.Someonedragsmedownthehalltothecommonsroomandthepainlessensinstantly;bythetimesomeonepropsmeinachairmyheadisalreadybeginningtoclear—atleastasclearas itcangetwiththelingeringfuzzinessoftheSeroquel.IlookupandseeDr.Littleononeside,thelargeorderlyontheother.Theroomdancesmadly.“Areyouokay?”askstheorderly.“Whatdidyoudotome?”“Wedidn’tdoanything,”saysDr.Little.“Mycellphonerangandyouhadan

acutephobicreaction.”“The headache hit before the phone rang,” I say, closing my eyes and

breathingdeeptoslowmypoundingheart.“Itwasn’tthephonethatdidit,itwasthat chirp from the speaker—it was like a sonic attack. You deliberatelyincapacitatedme!”“Thatchirpwasthephone,”saystheorderly.Iopenmyeyestolookathimin

surprise,andIseeDr.Littledoingthesame.“You’resure?”asksthedoctor.“Speakerslikethatproducesoundwithamagneticfield,”saystheorderly.“A

cellphonesignal thatcrosses thefieldwarps itenoughtochangethesound.Ithappenstomyhomecomputerallthetime.”Dr.Littlelooksathim,thenatme.HepullsouthisphoneandIshyback.“Stay here,Michael. Carter, come over here.”He nods toward the hallway,

twentyorthirtyfeetaway,andtheorderlyfollowshimover.“Youhaveacellonyou?”Theorderlynodsandpullsitout.Dr.Littlegiveshimhisnumber.“Dialthat

in,butdon’tcallyet.”Hewalksbacktowardthenurse’sstation,andIstandup

togetabetterview—keepingwellclearoftheorderlyandhisphone.Steveandacoupleofotherpatientswanderover towatchaswell.We’veneverseenDr.Littlethisconcerned.“Allright,”saysthedoctor,standingnexttothespeakers,“callme.”Heholds

hisphoneuptothespeakers,andtheorderlyhitsabuttononhisphone.Itakeanotherstepback,justincase.Afewsecondslaterthespeakerschirp—aloud,syncopated rhythm. A second after that the doctor’s phone starts to ring. Dr.Little staresat it amoment, thenpressesabutton to stop thecall.The ringingstops,andwithitthechirp.“Well,”hesays.Hetakesastep,glancingupatthespeakers.“Well.”Anursestepsoutfromtheoffice.“Themonitorimageflickeredtoo,notjust

thespeaker.Whatdidyoudo?”Dr.Littleputshisphoneaway,takesafewsteps,andstops.Hepauses,turns,

andstopsagain.“Itcouldstillbeapsychosomaticreaction.”Istare,incredulous.“What?”“Ifyouknewaboutthespeakereffect,evensubconsciously,yourmindcould

producethesamereactiontothatchirpthatitdoestoacellphonering.”“It’snotmental,”Isay,“it’sareal,physicalreaction.Thatsignalisscrewing

with something inmy head, the sameway it screwswith the speakers—it’s amicrochiporatransmitteroroneofthosedamnalienbugs!”“Ofcourseit’saphysicalreaction,”hesays,walkingtowardme.“Yourbrain

isaphysicalthing—evenyourhallucinationsarephysicalreactions,producedbyreal, physical impulses and chemicals. There’s no implant in your head, justregularears;theyhearasoundandtellyourbrain,whichconsultsyourdelusionandcreatesapsychosomaticpainresponse.”“Butyoucan’tbesure!”Ishout.“You’rejustguessingnow—you’rebrushing

this off like you ignore everything else I say!” I step closer and the orderlyreaches forme,but suddenlyDr.LittlepullshisphonebackoutofhispocketandIshyback,cringingatthememoryofpain.HeholdsituplikeacrossandIstepbackagain.Thedoctorstandssilent,watchingme.“It’snothing,”hesaysatlast.“Nothing

atall.I’mignoringyourideasbecausetheyarepatentlyridiculous:youdonothaveanelectricalsignalorsomekindofalienbeinglockedinsideyourhead.”

Helooksaroundatthegatheredpatients.“Backtoyour…We’redonehere.”Heturnsandwalksaway,themassiveorderlyflankinghimprotectively.

***

IHAVEATRACKINGDEVICE. It’s theonlyexplanation. Inoneofmyepisodesof lost timeIwasabducted,bywhoorwhatIdonotknow,and theyplantedsomething inmybrain that reacts toelectronic fields—that’show theytrackme, that’showtheycontrolme, that’showtheydoeverything.Dr.Littleeitherdoesn’tbelieve it,orhe’sdeliberately lying.But ishe lying tomeor tohimself?Isheignoringtheramifications,orcoveringthemup?“HeyMike.”Ilookup;Devonisstandinginmydoorway.Hegrins.“Someone’sheretoseeyou,man.”Lucy!Istandupquicklyandsteptothedoor.“Finally!”“It’syourfather.”I stop short.My father.We’ve been apart so long—nearly amonth in here,

plusthetwoweeksbeforethatIstillcan’tremember.Myfather.Myfacefalls,andIstepback.“Whatdoeshewant?”“Wellhewants toseeyou,man,”saysDevon.“He’syourdad,ofcoursehe

wants to see you.” I don’tmove, and he reaches formy shoulder. “Come on,Mike,you’vebeeninherefiveweeksandthisisonlyyourthirdvisit.Comesay‘hi’totheguy.Comeon.”Ihesitateamoment,butDevongrabsmyshoulderandpullsmetothedoor,

andIlethimleadmethroughthehallandintothecommonsroom.Myfatheristhere,standingstifflybythewall,hishatinhishands.Hewearsawoolhateverytimehegoesanywhere.Hestraightenswhenheseesme,buthisfaceishard.Ikeepmyfaceimpassive

andwalktowardhim.Istopafewfeetaway.“Dr.Littletoldmetocome,”hesaysbrusquely.Iwaitformore,buthesays

nothing.Ilookatthefloor.“Heprobablythinksitwillhelpme.”Myfathergrunts.“Doesn’tknowusverywell,then.”“Doyouwanttositdown?”

“Iwon’tbeherethatlong.”Inod.Itfigures.Idon’twanttospendmuchtimewithhimanyway.Istareat

thewall,notsurewhatelsetosay.“Wasthetrafficbadgettinghere?”“Badasever.”“Ah.” Inodagain.Am Inodding toomuch? Is it the… the tar-something?

Dyskinetics?Iworryalotthesedays,maybetoomuch.Ifixmyeyesonthewallandtrytoholdstill.“Doctor’sbeenaskingaboutyourmother,”hesays,ahintofangerentering

his voice. It’s subtle, but I’ve learned to identify it before it gets out of hand.“Medicalhistoryandsuch;wants toknowifshewascrazylikeyou.Whatareyoutellingthesepeopleaboutyourmother?”“Nothing,”Isayquickly.“They’veneveraskedmeabouther.”“I didn’t askwhat they asked about her, I askedwhat you told them.”His

voiceisrisingnow.Ifeellikeachildagain,standinginacorner,listeningtohimyellaboutbreakingsomethingorplayingtoofaraway.Heneverlikedmetogofar.Ithinkhewasscaredthey’dcomeaftermeagain.Ishakemyhead,lookingatthefloor.“Ihaven’tsaidanything,sir.Notabout

Mom.Shehasnothingtodowiththis.”“You’redamnrightshehasnothingtodowiththis,”hesays.“Idon’tlikeyou

running around crazy and stupid, but I likeyoumakingyourmom look crazyandstupidevenless.Youhearme,boy?Shedoesn’tdeservethis.”“Excuseme, sir,” saysDevon, stepping forward, butmy father cutshimoff

fiercely.“Youkeepyournoseoutofourbusiness,yougotthat?”Devonpausesamoment,thenwalksaroundus,headedforthegate.Somethingaboutthisdoesn’tmakesense.Dr.Littlegotafullmedicalhistory

onmeandmyparentslasttimeIwasinhere,yearsago;there’snoreasontobeaskingmorequestionsnow.Deadmedicalhistoriesdon’tchange.“Whatkindsofquestionswasheasking?”“Whatdoyoucarewhatkindsofquestionshewasasking?”Ishiftmyfeet,tryingtosummonmorecourage.Ikeepmyeyesonthefloor.

“I justwant toknowwhat they’re asking,” I say calmly. “I need to figureoutwhatthey…whattheythinkiswrongwithme.”

“What’swrongwithyouisyou’reweak,”hesays.“Youalwayshavebeen.Idon’thavetimetocomerunningdowntotheloonybineverytimeyoucan’tdealwith whatever stupid thing sends you over the edge. Your mother deservesbetter.”Mymother.Italwayscomesbacktoher.Dr. Little steps up behind my father; Devon is a few paces behind him,

looking stern. “Excuse me, sir,” the doctor says, taking my father by theshoulder.“Ifyoudon’tmind,Ihaveafewmorequestionsforyou.”“Ofcourse,”myfathersaysgruffly.HeturnsandwalkswithDr.Littletothe

gate,neversayinggood-byeorevengivingmeafinalglance.Iwatchhimgo,relieved.Mymotherdeservedbetterthanhim.

TWELVE

“VERYGOOD,”SAYSLINDA,smiling,“that’sexcellent,Gordon.”Gordonlooksupwithagrin,hishandsstillmovingthebroom:backandforth,

backandforth,afullsixinchesoffthecommonsroomfloor.“Remember tokeep it on theground,” saysLinda, andGordon’s eyesgrow

wide with despair. The broom slows, but doesn’t lower, and Linda steps inlookingasgentleandlovingasshecan.“It’sokay,Gordon,you’redoingagreatjob!”Sheguideshishandsdown,loweringthebroomuntilittouchesthefloor.“Thereyougo—youdidit!Nowkeepgoingbackandforth,justlikethat.”Gordonsmilesagain.“This is stupid,” says Steve. “We shouldn’t have to sweep the floor—they

have janitors who do that for us. This is like a hotel. I need to order roomservice.”“This is your home,” saysLinda. “Don’t you think you should help to take

careofyourhome?”“Theyhave janitors for that,” saysSteve. “I’ve seen them.There’sonewho

comesatnight.”“Theydohavejanitors,”saysLinda,“butit’simportanttolearnhowtodoit

foryourself.Areyougoingtolivehereforever?”“I’mleavingsoon.JerryandIareleavingnextweek.”“I don’t think you’re leaving us that soon,” says Linda, “but you will be

leavingeventually.Ourjobistomakesureyouknowhowtoactwhenyougo.”“I already know how to sweep,” says Steve. “See? Gimme that broom,

Gordon,gimmethatbroomsoIcanshowthem.”HewrestleswithGordonforamoment, Gordon still struggling mutely to move the broom back and forthacrossthefloor.Lindastepsinandseparatesthem.

“You don’t need to show me, Steve, I believe you. Would you like to trysomethingelse?Jobskills?”“Iworkedinabookstore.”“We have a cash register right over here,” she says, leading him over to a

lunchtable.“Youcometoo,Michael,youcanbethecustomer.”Ifollowherafewsteps,thenstop.Theregistersquatslikeadullmetaltoadonthetable.“Wehaveabagofplasticgroceriesrighthere,”saysLinda,pointingtoapileonthetable. “All you have to do is…” She turns and sees that I didn’t follow. “It’sokay,Michael,it’sfun.YoucanhelpSteve.”Idon’tsayanything.“He’safraidoftheregister,”saysSteve.“Hethinksit’sgoingtokillhim.”“It’snotgoingtokillme,”Isay.“Hethinksit’sgoingtoreadhismind,orwriteonit,ordosomethingelselike

that.He’skindofcrazy.”Idon’tsayanything.What’sthepoint?“We have some kind ofweird people in here,” says Steve, leaning close to

Lindaandwhispering, “but I think there’s somethingwrongwithMichael.Heshouldprobablyseeapsychiatrist.”“Whydon’tyousee ifyoucanfigureout theregister,”saysLinda,“andI’ll

haveatalkwithMichaelalone.”Sheleaveshimbythetableandcomestome,smilingfaintly.“Areyouokaytoday,Michael?”“Itdoesn’tmatter.”“Whynot?”Ishakemyhead.“I’mnevergettingoutofhere.Notalive.”“Doyouthinkyourlifeisindanger?”Ilookaway.Idon’twanttotellherwhatawasteIam;she’lljustgivemea

peptalkaboutsunshineorhappinessorsomedumbthing.“Comewithme,Michael,Ineedtoshowyousomething.”Ifollowher;wewalkthroughthecommonsroom,pastpatientswipingdown

tables and reading books to each other and playing all kinds of weird littlegames.I’vebeeninheretwomonthsnow.What’sthepoint?I’mnevergettingoutalive.HowmuchlongercanIlast?

“Ihavea treatforyoutoday,”saysLinda,stoppingbythecouches.“This isthebesttherapysessionyou’veeverhad.”Shepauses,waitingformetotalk,butIsaynothing.Afteramomentshecontinues.“We’redoingsocialtherapytoday,likeIwastellingSteve.We’rehelpingtogiveyoutheskillsyouneedtoliveoutin the real world again. For most of these guys that means cleaning up, buteveryone’sdifferent.Steve’sgettingprettygoodatcleaning,sohe’smovedontojob skills. It seems simple, I know, but playingwith an old cash register andsometoyfoodisgoingtohelphimgetreadytomovebackoutsideandhavearealjob.He’sprobablyprettyclose.”I stay silent, staring at the floor, listening to a trainwhistle howling in the

distance. There are other voices, whispering angrily, but I ignore them. Theyneversayanythinggood.“Whatwouldyouliketodo?”asksLinda.Ishakemyhead.“Idon’twanttocleananything.”“That’sgood;Iwasn’tgoingtoaskyouto.Sometimessocialtherapyiseven

simplerthanthat.Sometimessocialtherapyisjustlearninghowtofitin.Howtostopbeingscared.”Ilookup,wary,butitdoesn’tmatterwhatsheasksmetodo.Nothingmatters

anymore.“Iwantyoutositrighthere,”shesays,leadingmearoundtothefrontofthe

couch,“andwatchTV.”Istepbackfirmly,yankingmyhandaway.“Ican’t.”“Allyouhavetodoissithere,”shesays,smiling.“ForeveryoneelseTVis

leisure time—it’s likea reward. I’mgiving it toyou for therapy,how lucky isthat?”“Ican’tdoit.”I’mshakingmyhead.“Ican’tsithere,andIcan’tturniton,I

can’twatchit—”“Ithoughtyousaidnothingmattered?”“Thisdoes!”“Listen,” says Linda, planting herself between me and the TV. “This is

important.Nothingisgoingtohappen.”“Youdon’tunderstand—”“Idounderstand,”shesayscalmly,“that’swhyI’mdoingthis.TVsandcell

phonesandcomputersandeverythingelse—they’renotouttogetyou.Nooneisreadingyourmind.Nooneisalteringit.”“Ican’tdoit,”Ipant,“Ican’tdoit…”“You’regoingtogetoutofhere,”shesays.“Youdon’tbelievemerightnow,

but you will—one day you’ll be happy, and healthy, and free. You’ll have ahomeandajobandfriends.DoyouwanttospendthattimeterrifiedofTVs?”Myeyesareclosed;myheadisshaking.“Lookatme,” she says.Sheholdsmyheadwithherhands, holding it still.

“Look at me, Michael.” I open my eyes slowly. “There we go. Now listen.You’vebeenscaredofelectronicsfortoolong,andevenwhenthedrugskickinandthehallucinationsgoaway,you’llstillbescaredofthemoutofpurehabit.Butthereisnothingwrong.Canyousaythat?”“No,”Iwhisper.“Let’sstartsimple,”shesays.Shepushesmedownintothecouch,andItryto

movebutsheholdsmeinplaceandI’msittingonthecouchandIcanseetheTVbehindher,blackandsilentandstaring.“We’regoingtostartverysimply,”shesays,“assimpleaspossible.We’regoingtosithere,together,andjustlookat it,okay?Wewon’t turn iton,wecanevenunplug it ifyouwant,butwe’regoingtosithereandgetusedtoit.We’regoingtopretendlikethere’snothingwronginthewholeworld.”Myvoiceisaquietrasp.“Whydoyouwantmetobehere?Whatisitgoingto

dotome?”“It’snotgoingtodoanything,”shesays.“That’swhywe’rehere—soyoucan

seethatit’snotgoingtodoanything.Alright?”IlookattheTV.Itlooksback.Igritmyteeth.Idon’twanttobescared.“Alright.”Therearetearsinmyeyes.“Let’sdoit.”

***

IT’SNOTLIKEASWITCHinmyhead;it’snotlikethedrugsjustpulledamagic lever and suddenly all the crazy is gone. But the drugs are working.Slowlybutsurely,theSeroquelischangingthewayIseetheworld.Imagine that you’re looking through a pane of glass, thick with dirt, and

someone’swashing it clean. It’s still smudged and dirty, coveredwith smearsandgrimeandresidue,butit’sbetterthanitwas.Lightispeekingthrough,andcertainimagesarecomingclear.I’mgettingbetter.AndthatmeansIwassick.I’mprettysurethemaggotwasahallucination.Imean,howcoulditbereal?

Thingslikethatdon’texist,andiftheydidIdefinitelywouldn’tbetheonlyonewhoknewabout it. Itwouldhave left some tracks—aslime trail, or spoor,orbitemarks, or something to show that it had been here. Someonewould haveseen something, andquestionswouldhavebeenasked, and thewholehospitalwouldhavegoneintohighalert.Youcan’thidesomethinglikethat.Itcan’thavebeenreal.Ispendmydayswatching things—watchingeverything.There’sapatient in

thecommons room thatnooneever talks to: ishe real?He sits in thecorner,talkingtohimself,andpeoplepassbywithoutsayinganything.Hemightexistsolelyinsidemyhead.Atdinneroneofthenursestalkstohim,putsahandonhisshoulder;doesthatmeanhe’sreal,orthatshe’simaginarytoo?Iwatchherasshemoveson, talking tootherpatients,askingabout theirdayor their foodortheir anything. Maybe I’m imagining it all, making the patients move andrespondinmyheadwhile inreal life theysitstillandsaynothingbecause thenurse isn’t there.Can I do that?How real aremydreams?Howdeeply ismyfalserealityblendedwith therealone?IfDr.Vanek is right, Ihavenowayofknowing.OnethingIknowforsure—thefootstepsatnight,thesoftonesIthoughtwere

Shauna’s, are completely gone. There is no nursewho checks on us at night,only thenightguardwhowanders thehallsandpeeks inourwindows. I thinkShauna must be imaginary too, like the maggot: a hallucination created by adesperate mind. My subconscious mind created the quiet nurse, soft andbeautifulandkind,becauseI’mlonely.Whydidmymindcreatethemaggot?I shudder again, seized by the fleeting thought of it shrunk down and

burrowingthroughmyhead.Dr.Little,I’mfairlysure,isreal,andsoareDevonandLindaandVanek.Too

manypeoplehaveseenthem,talkedtothem,reactedtothem.They’reeitherall

hallucinationsorall real,and ifmyhallucinationscanbe thatwidespread thennothing’srealatall.Whataboutmyfather?Italmostmakessensethathe’sfake—that my schizophrenic mind, left to raise itself as a young orphan, wouldcreate a father and, not knowing how a father should behave, pattern hisbehaviorafterthecruelrealitiesoftheworldaroundme.ThevoiceoftheEarth,tellingmeIwasnogoodandnobodylovedme.AsachildIfedmyself,bathedmyself, walkedmyself to school; is that becausemy father was negligent, orbecausehedidn’texist?Buthecamein,hetalkedtome,heyelledatmeandheyelledatDevon,and

thenDevonandDr.Littleboth talked tohim,both touchedhim. Idon’tknowwheretherealworldbeginsandends.It’swishful thinking, I guess, to hope thatmy father isn’t real. I’mnot that

lucky.What about the reporter, Kelly Fischer? She made me promise not to tell

anyonesheexisted;shemademeswearit.Whenshehidinthebathroomsothenursedidn’tseeher—wasshereallyinthere,wasshereallyhiding,orwasitjustmymindmakingexcusesforwhythenursecouldn’tseeher?Whenshecameinthatdaytothecommonsroomshesatwithme,rightoverthere,butshedidn’ttalktoLinda,andLindadidn’tsayanythingtoher.There’s a knock on the door, but I don’t look up. I never do anymore. It’s

neveranyoneIwanttotalkto.Thehandleturnsandthedoorcracksopen,andIsmellherbeforesheevenspeaks:thesoftscentofflowers.Lucy.“Michael?”Ilookupandtheresheis,backagain,backatlast,peekingthroughthedoor.

Sheseesmyfaceandrecognitionlightsuphereyes,andsuddenlyshe’srunninginagain,holdingme inher arms, crying intomyneck. Iholdher too, a long,warmbearhug.Wesitthatwayforaminute,fortwominutes,justholdingeachother.It’sbeenoveramonthsinceshewashere,andIneverwanttolethergoagain.“I’msosorry,”shewhispers.“ItriedeverythingIcoulddo,butIcouldn’tget

youout.”“Howdidyougetinhere?”“Ibribedthenightjanitor,”shesays.“He’snotpartofit—youcantrusthim.”

“Partofwhat?”Itakeherbythehandsandwhisperdarkly.“I’msick—Ireallyam.Whatistheretobepartof?”Shefrowns.“Howcanyoubesick?”“Thedrugsareworking,”Isay.“IthinkImightactuallybeschizophrenic.”“ButI’vefoundsomuch,”shesays.“Youtoldmetolookitup—theRedLine

andthehospitalandeverything.There’sreallysomethinggoingon—”“But Idon’twant it tobe true,” I say.“I’veseen things thatcan’t be true—

monsters,realmonsters,andtheyhavetobehallucinations.Andthere’sanothergirl—”“Another girl?” asks Lucy, her voice loud and jealous. I quiet herwithmy

hands, looking nervously at the door. She puts her hands on her hips. “Whatothergirl?”“A reporter,” Iwhisper, “from theSun—but she’s completely fake.The last

time you came to visit me, so did she, and I didn’t think anything about itbecauseDr.LittletoldmeIwasgoingtohaveavisitor,buthewastalkingaboutyou—he said it was a girl, and that was you. The reporter was anotherhallucination trying to pull me deeper into the killer and the conspiracy andeverythingthatisn’treal.Don’tyougetit,Lucy?Allofthatisfake!Maybeit’severything—thekillerandtheFacelessMenandeverything.Don’tyouseewhatthismeans?Ifit’snotrealthenIdon’thavetobeafraidanymore.Idon’thavetohide.”Loudfootstepsecho in thehall, slowlycomingcloser,andIpullawayfrom

her.“Theguard,”Isay.“Closethedoor,quick—”Butit’salreadyclosed.Ilookbackather,confused.“Didyouclosethedoor?”“Ithinkso.”“Youjustranstraighttome—thedoorsheredon’tclosebythemselves,there’s

nosprings.Whoclosedthedoor?”“I’msureIclosedit.Imusthave.”Thefootstepsarealmosthere.“Itdoesn’tmatter—getdown.”She rolls off the bed on the far side, away from the door, and ducks down

behindit.Ifallback,pretendingtosleep,andwatchthroughaslimcrackinmyeyelids as the night guard stops, looks in my window, and moves on. I wait

longer,countinghisstepsashemovesaway.Hepausesagainat thenextdoorand Iholdmybreath.At last the footstepscontinue,and I rollover to lookatLucy.Shepeeksupfromtheedgeofthebed.“Thisisn’tahospital,”shesays,“it’saprison.”“Yousaidyou’dfoundsomething,”Isay,stillstaringat thedoor.“Whatdid

youfind?”“They’rereallyouttogetyou,”shesays.“Thewholehospital.Thejanitoris

theonlyoneyoucantrust—hisnameisNick,andhe’sgoingtohelpusescape.”“Whatdotheywant?”“Idon’tknowwhattheywant,”shesays,“butitdoesn’tmatteranymore—we

can leave.Wecan leave rightnowandnevercomeback,andyou’llnever seethemagain,andthenitwon’tmatterwhattheywantbecauseyou’llbefree.”I stare at her, breathing heavily, thinking about the outside. “The drugs are

working,”Iwhisper.“Evenifsomeofit’sreal,someofit’snot,andIdon’twanttogobacktothewayIwas.”“Wecangetyouotherdrugs,butyouhavetocomewithme!Nickletmein,

andhe’sgoingtoletusout,butwe…”Shestops.Shestaresatthedoor,thenatme;herfaceisstreakedwithconfusion.“Wecan’t.”Istareback,feelingworrygrowthroughmelikeaweed.“Wecan’twhat?”“Wecan’tleave.”“Butyoubribedthejanitor,right?”She looks confused, like she’s struggling to remember something. “Well,

yeah…”“Andhe’sgoingtoletyoubackoutagain,right?”“Ofcourse,but…”sheshakesherhead.“Thisdoesn’tmakesense.”Isteptowardher.“Whatdoesn’tmakesense?”“Irememberbribingthejanitor,andIremembercomingintogetyouout,but

wecan’tleave.”“Wecan’torIcan’t?”She looks at me, disoriented, her mouth open. “It’s not that specific, it’s

just…Iknow it. It’sa fact in thebackofmymind:we’regoing togo to thegate,justlikemyplan,butthejanitor’snotgoingtobethere,andwe’regoingtobetrapped.There’snowaywecangetout.”

“Youthinkhe’sbetrayedyou?”“It’s not like that, Michael, it’s—it’s not a hunch, it’s a fact. I know it as

clearly as I know my own name.” She pauses. “Lucy Briggs.” Her voice istentative;probing.Inod,slowly.“LucyBriggs.”Hereyesarewidewithfear.Irealizethatshe’s

wearingthesameclothesshehadonlasttime—ablackT-shirtandblackjeans.Itrytorememberherwearingsomethingelse,but…Ican’t.“What’sgoingon?”AndthenIthinkit,andtheinstantIthinkitIknowit’strue,andsheknowsit

too, and I see it on her face and I know that she thinksmy thoughts and thatmeansthatI’mright,andIdon’tdaresayitoutloud.Hervoiceisapuffofwind.“I’mnotreal.”Myheartbreaksinhalf.“I’mahallucination,Michael.”“No.”She steps toward me. “The night janitor didn’t let me in here, you just

imaginedmehere,andthejanitorwastheexplanationyoumadeuptoexplainhowithappened,butitdoesn’tholdupbecausenowwecan’tgetbackout.”Igritmyteeth.“You’rereal.”“Youknewit—inthebackofyourmindyouknewitwasallafake,soIknew

ittoo,becauseeverythingIamisapartofyou.”Myeyesarehotwithtears,andIshoutwithrage.“You’rereal!”Shecomescloser,catchingmywristwithherhand,andIfeel the touchand

the warmth and the pressure but no texture, and I look in her eyes and myreflection is wrong—a younger me, well-dressed and handsome and half-remembered.Adistorted reflection frommyownmemory; an idealizedme intheeyesofmyidealwoman.“Michael,I’msosorry.”“Howcanyoubesorryifyoudon’texist?”I’mcrying;Itwistawayfromher

gripandgrabherarm,butitdoesn’tfeelright—theheftisthere,thesolidity,butIcantellitisn’treal.Thereshouldbemoregive—andsuddenlythereis.Ithinkthat I should feel her heartbeat in her wrist and suddenly I can, in the sameinstantIthinkofit.Mymindisfillinginthedetailsinadesperatebidtoholdon

tothefantasy.“Thiscan’tbereal,” Isay, then instantlycontradictmyself.“Youhave tobe

real.”“IwishIwas.”“Youhavetobereal!”Ishout.Sheflinches,pullingawayfrommygrasp.“I

canseeyou,Icanfeelyou,Icansmellyou.”“I’mallinyourhead.”“You’resmarter thanme,”Isay, throwingupmyhands.“Youhaveabigger

vocabularythanme;youtalkaboutpeopleIhaven’tmet.HowcouldIpossiblyhavemadeyouup?”“You’ve heard things,” she says, stepping towardme. “You’ve seen things,

you’vereadthings,andyou’veabsorbeditalllikeaspongeandnowit’slockedin your subconscious, andwhen you talk tome it all just… comes out.Youdon’tknowit—consciousMichaelShipmandoesn’tknowit—butit’sallinthereandyourbraindecided,forwhateverreason,thatLucyBriggscanrememberitevenifyoucan’t.”I sit down on the bed. Lucy puts her hand onmy shoulder and I know it’s

there,butIalsoknowit’snot.Istareintoherface—perfectlybeautiful,delicateandstrongatthesametime.Thegirlnextdoorwho’salsoasupermodel.Ilaugh.“IguessIshouldhaveknownitwastoogoodtobetrue,huh?”Itakeherhand

—Iholditinmyown,softandwarmandalive.“Theperfectwoman,smartandfunnyandgorgeous,whojusthappenedtofallmadlyinlovewithanobody.”“You’renotanobody.”“I’mahomelessmentalpatientwithahighschoolequivalencyandadead-end

job found for me by a social worker. If you were real you’d have a richboyfriendandapenthouseinthemiddleofdowntown.”“Idohaveapenthouseinthemiddleofdowntown.”“BecauseIimagineditforyou!BecauseI’msuchalonely,patheticloserthat

ImademyselfthemostperfectgirlfriendIcouldthinkof.”“Listen,Michael,Icanhelpyou.”“Goaway!”“If I’mreally insideyourhead,andI reallycanremember thingsyoudon’t,

maybeIcanrememberotherthingstoo.”

Iturntothewall.“Justleavemealone—”“Dr.Vaneksaidyourhallucinationsmightbebasedon real experiences that

youcan’t rememberbecauseyoucan’tget insideyourownhead.”Shepushesherself in front ofme, and I turn away again. “Michael, I’malready insideofyourhead.Ifthey’reinhere,maybeIcanfindthem!”“Dammit,Lucy,you’renotreal!”“OfcourseI’mreal!”sheshouts.“Idon’texistforanyoneelsebutIexistfor

you.Icanthink,right?ThereforeIam.”“YouthinkwhatItellyoutothink—youhavenowillofyourown.”“Isthatyourperfectgirlfriend?”“What?”Ilookatheragainandhereyesglistenwithtears,softandsadand

deepasendlessholes.“If this is true,” she says, “ifyoucreatedyourperfectgirlfriend,wouldyou

really make her that weak? Would she really have no will? No power? Nothoughtsofherown?”Ifeelmyheartbreakingagain.“Ofcoursenot.”“Iloveyou,”shesays.“Whotellsyoutostickwithyourjobeverytimeyou

want to quit?Who convinced you to join that reading skills class? I havemyownwill because you know you couldn’t lovemewithout one—because youunderstandthatloveisnotaboutacceptingpeople,it’saboutmakingthembetter.We make each other better, Michael.” Tears form in her eyes—tiny drops ofwater,glisteninglikediamonds.“Atleastletmetry.”“Michael,youokayinhere?”Ilookup,overLucy’sshoulder,andIseethenightguardcomingin.“Iheard

shouting,” he says. “You all right, buddy?”He steps forward, directly towardLucy,andshestepsoutofhisway.“Whydidyoustepoutofhisway?”Iask,ignoringtheguardandstaringher

down. “If you’re just a hallucination, you could just stand there and he couldwalkrightthroughyou.”“Whoareyoutalkingto?”theguardasks.“Your brain won’t let me do anything it considers impossible,” says Lucy,

shrugging.“Technically,Ishouldn’tevenbeherewithhim,becauseitwillonlyunderlinethefactthathecan’tseeme.”

“Canyouseeher?”Iask,lookingattheguard.Heanswerswithoutlooking.“There’snooneherebutyouandme,Michael.”“She’sstandingrightthere,canyouseeher?”Hedoesn’tmove.“Canyoujust

turnandlook?”“He thinks you’re trying to trick him,” says Lucy, walking behind him.

“You’renottheonlyschizophrenicinlockdown,youknow—he’sseenthistrickahundredtimes.”“Hithim,”Itellher.“Justcalmdown,”saystheguard,holdinguphishand.“Come on,” I say, “you’re right behind him—hit him!We can run, and the

janitorcanletusoutlikehepromised,andwecanbetogetheragain,forever.”“I’mnotreal,Michael.”“Yesyouare!Hithim!”“Easy,there,Michael,”saystheguard,puttingahandonmyshoulder.Ishrug

himoffviolentlyandhepopslikeaspring,grabbingmeinatightwrestlingholdsosuddenlyIbarelyevenseehimmove.“Easy,Michael,”hesaysagain,“justcalmdown.Everything’sgoingtobeokay.”“Helpme!”She waves, a tear rolling down her cheek, and then she’s gone. I struggle

againsttheguardbutheholdsmetightlyinplace,callingforthenurse.Itrytokick him and suddenly we’re down on the floor and he has my whole bodypinned.“Lucy!”Thereisnoanswer.

THIRTEEN

INTHEMORNING they raisemy dose of Seroquel, and a few days latertheyraiseitagain.Dr.LittlesaysmyconfrontationwithLucywasagoodthing—thateventhoughIstillsawher,myknowledgethatshewasn’trealwasabigstepforward.Itmeansthedrugsareworking.Bitbybit, theglassisbecomingclearer.Dr. Vanek comes to visit on the weekend, shooing off a handful of other

patientstoclearusaprivatespaceinthecornerofthecommonsroom.Iignorehim.“Michael,” he says, lowering himself into a chair. “You become more and

moreinterestingalmosteveryday,don’tyou?”“Idon’twanttotalk.”Myheadnods,allbyitself.Didheseethat?“Why?”heasks.“Becauseyourgirlfriend’snotreal?You’renottheonlyman

intheworldwithafakegirlfriend,Iassureyou.Lookatourbeautyindustry—it’samazinganyone’ssatisfiedwithrealwomenanymore.”“IsaidIdon’twanttotalk.”“Butyourecognizeyour illnessnow,”hesays, leaningin.“You’veadmitted

thatyouseehallucinations,whichputsyouinthatgloriousmiddlegroundwherewecan reallyget someworkdone:you’recrazyenough tosee them,butsaneenoughtodiscussthemopenly.Ihatetryingtopsychoanalyzebymemory.”Iturnonhimangrily.“It’snotaboutbeingcrazy,it’saboutbeingalone.What

gooddoesitdometogetbetternowthatIdon’thaveanyonetobebetterwith?Iwasgoingtogetout—Iwasgoingtogetbetterandgetoutandliveinagreatbighouseinthecountrywith…”Iturnaway.“Areyoucontent,then,simplytoplaywithyourimaginaryfriends?”“Shutup.”Myarmtwitches,butIholditstill.

“Don’t get angry with me,” he says, “you’re the one acting like a child.Besides,ifyoudidn’twanttogetbetteryouwouldn’tbetalkingtoDr.Jones.”“Dr.Jones?”“Linda,”hesayswithdistaste,asifthenameitselfisunpleasantinhismouth.

“She’sthequeenofthepsychiatrichippiesandapurveyoroffeel-goodclaptrap,but she’s apparently been having some success with you. Regular sessions,individual and group, where you’ve apparently delved quite deep into yourhopelessFreudianwasteland.”“She’shelpingme.”“Helpingyouwhat?Killyourgirlfriend?”“Shutup!”“Do you want to lose her or not? Have I misunderstood our entire

conversationuptothispoint?”“Look,”Isay,turningtofacehimandlockinghiseyesinamurderousgaze.

“Lucywas one of the only things I loved in this entireworld, and now she’sgone,andIthinkIhavetherighttobesadaboutthat.ButlosingheristhepriceIpayforlosingawholehordeofmonstersandaliensandGodonlyknowswhatelse I have crawling around in my head. I’ve been running away from aworldwideconspiracyofomnipotentFacelessMenforalmostayear,andnowforthefirsttimeIcanstoprunningbecauseIknowthere’snothingtorunfrom.NoFacelessMen,nogiantmaggots,nophantomnoisesinthehall.Forthe…Ican’tevenwatchTV,Vanek.Icouldbarelystandtorideinacar,forfearthatthestereowastryingtoreadmymind.ItbreaksmyhearttoloseLucy,butifthat’sthe trade-off—ifIget tohaveareal lifenow,withareal jobandmaybeeven,someday,a realgirlfriend—thenwhoareyou toaccusemeofanything?” I sitbackandturnaway,nodding,andwhenhestarts tospeakagainIdivestraightback intomy rant. “Ifyou’dbeenhalf thepsychiatristLinda Jones is, Imighthavegottentothispointyearsagoandsavedmyselfalotoftrouble.”Istareathim,breathingheavily,daringhimtospeak.I’msotired—wornout

andbeatupandfullofrustedholes,likeanoldcarinajunkyard.Thelighthurtsmyeyesand thesoundhurtsmyearsandeverymovementmakesmymusclesburn—the dull, lactic acid smolder of fatigue and hard exercise.MySeroqueldoseisalmostmaxedout,andmybodycan’ttakemuchmore.

Dr. Vanek watches me calmly, saying nothing, until finally I turn away inexhaustion.“You’re going to go to prison,” he says. “As soon as you’re better.They’re

curingyousotheycanputyouontrial.”Ikeepmyeyesonthefloor.“Everywordyou say convinces themyou’re akiller.You fit theprofile too

perfectly: an angry young man, friendless and with no family to speak of;paranoidandpersecuted;convincedthatthesourceofyourtroublesisabandofnameless, faceless men who haunt your every move. Who are the victims,Michael?Neighborswhoteasedyou?Teacherswhogotinyourway?Howeasyitmusthavebeentoconvinceyourselftheywerepartofthis“plan”todestroyyou, and how easy then, their humanity erased, to take their lives and cut offtheirfacesandshowtheworldwhattheyreallywere.”“It’snottrue.”“Iknowit’snot true!”heshouts,shockingmewithhisanger,“butwhatare

youdoingtoproveit?Wherewereyouwhenyoulostyourmemory?”“Idon’tremember.”“Youhave to remember!Youhave togive themanalibior they’ll lockyou

awayfortherestofyourlife.Ortheymightjustkillyou:wedohavethedeathpenaltyinthisstate,youknow.”“Idon’trememberanything,”Isay,“justpatches,maybe,thatmightnoteven

bereal—Iwasathome,Iwasatwork,Iwas…Iwassomewhereempty.”“‘Empty?’”“Justhouseswithnobodyinthem,awholecityofthem.”Hepauses.“Tellmemore.”“Idon’tknowanymore!”Peoplearestartingtolookatusnow.“Iremember

wakingupinthehospital,andeverythingbeforethatisablur, likeabigblackholeinmyhead.Ialreadytoldyou,itwastheMRIthatdidit—theygotinandscrewedupmywholehead—”“Whogotin,Michael,iftheFacelessMenareadelusion?”“I…”Istareathim,notknowingwhattosay.TherearenoFacelessMen,no

mysterious Plan, no one controlling my thoughts through every passing cellphone.IfelectronicsaresafethentheMRIissafe.Ican’tanswermyproblems

withaconspiracyanymore.“Michael?”“Whatifyou’reright?”Iwhisper.“WhatifIamtheRedLineKiller?”“You’renot.”“You don’t know that.” I look around, suddenly worried that someone is

listening.A fewpatientsarewatchingus,but they’reallon the far sideof theroom;thespacearoundusisclear.Ileanincloser.“Idofittheprofile,likeyousaid,andIhavetwoweeksIcan’taccountfor.Maybemore.IfI’mcapableofschizophrenia,whoknowswhatI’mcapableof?”“Schizophrenia isn’tsomethingyou’re‘capableof,’”hesays,“it’sadisease.

Youdon’tcommit it, ithappens toyou.Now try to thinkback to thoseweeksyoulost—”“I’mtwentyyearsold,”Isay,cuttinghimoff.“It’snotjusttwoweeks.CanI

accountforallthattime?Canyouaccountforeverymomentofthelasttwentyyears?”“Ithinkyou’drememberkillingsomeoneandflayinghisface.”“MaybeIwould,ormaybeI’dblockitout—selectivememory…”Istruggle

fortheword.“Repressedmemory…”“Dissociativeamnesia,”saysVanek.“You’resuggestingthattheactofkilling

wassotraumaticthatyourmindrepressedthememoriestosaveyoufromthem.”“It’spossible.”“It’s idiotic. Repressed memory, as a neurological function, is designed to

protect you from things that happen to you; things you do willingly are, bynature,notforeignenoughtoshockyourpsychethatprofoundly.”Foreign enough to shock you…Something about hiswords remindme of

Lucy, and the last thing she said: that my brain wouldn’t allow her to doanythingimpossible, likepass throughasecurityguard.Oncethemindcreatesan illusion, itwon’t let itself be shocked by anything thatmight break it.Butthere is agap in the system,agrayareawherean illusioncanprogress to thepointwhere reality can’t help but intrude. Likewhen Lucy broke in, and ourinabilitytobreakbackoutbroughtthewholecharadecrashingdown.“Whatif,”Isayslowly,“Ithoughtthatthekillingwasagoodthing—maybe

evenamoralthing—andonlyrealizedthemistakewhenthedeedwasdone?”

Vanekraisesaneyebrow.“You’redeterminedtoincriminateyourselfinthis.”“Idon’twanttobeakiller,butthinkaboutit.Whatifmybrain,thinkingthe

FacelessMenwerereal,decidedthatitwasmyresponsibilitytosavetheworldbystampingthemout.SoI’dgooutanddoit,andthenwhenItriedtounmaskthemIrealizeditwasallfalse,andtheillusionshatteredandthetraumaforcedthememorytorepress.”“Andthishappenedtwelveseparatetimes?”“It’spossible,isn’tit?”“It’sscientificallypossiblethatIcouldburstintoflameatanymoment,butit’s

not exactly probable. Nor is it believably probable that your messed-uppsychologymanagedtoturnyouintoafirst-timeserialkillerontwelveseparateoccasions.When I scared you with that bit about being the Red Line Killer,Michael,Iwastryingtoforceyouintosomesemblanceofself-preservation—tomakeyou comeupwith an alibi. I need you to rememberwhere youwere inthoselostweeks,butnowyou’redesperatetoproveyourselfguilty.”“I’mjusttryingtofollowthefacts.”“Thenfollowthemdownreasonablepathways.Yourobsessionwith theRed

Line victims is just onemore example of your delusional narcissism—that ifthere’samysterysomewhereintheworld,youmustbeattheheartofit.”Clickclickclickclick.Vanekfrowns.“IsthatwhatIthinkitis?”Dammit.“What?”“Youwereclickingyourteethagain,”saysVanek.“Onpurpose.”It’sallIcandotokeepthemfromclickingagain.“Thendoitagain.”“What?”“Ifyouwereclickingyourteethonpurpose,doitagain.Iwanttohearit.”“No.”“ShouldIcallDr.Little,then?OrDr.Jones—you’ddoitforher,Ibet.”“Fine.”Click.Click.Click.Click.Ican’tdoitasfastonpurpose;canhetell

thedifference?Hepauses,thinkingsilently.“It’snothing,”Isayagain.“It’snotthedrugs.”

“Tardive dyskinesia is very serious,” he says. “If it goes too far it can beirreversible,evenwithoutthedrugs.”“Whydoyoucaresomuchallofasudden?”“Becauseyou’re…you’reaninterestingpuzzle,andIdon’twantyoubroken

beforeyou’resolved.”“You’reaslovingasever.”Hestandsup.“I’mserious,Michael.Youhavetobreakthroughtoyour lost

memories—itcouldbecrucialtothecaseaswellastoyourownmentalhealth.”“Butthecasecomesfirst.”“Idon’tcarewhatcomesfirst,”hesays,checkinghiswatch.“Justremember.”

Heturnsandwalksaway.Iscantheroom,lookingforthepatientIthinkisahallucination,andIwatch

him,willinghim towalk throughawall or anurseor anotherpatient.He sitsdumbly,staringattheTV.WhyisVaneksoconcernedaboutthelosttime?WhatdoesheknowthatIdon’t?

***

THEMOVEMENTSAREGETTINGWORSE.I’velearnedtocontroltheteethclickbytearingupasockandkeepingaball

of the rolledup fabric in thebackofmymouth,wedgedbetweenmy teeth; itdoesn’tstopthemovement,butitstopsthenoise,andifI’mcarefularoundthenursesnoonecan tell.Myarm isharder tohide,butall I reallyhave todo iskeepmyhandinmypocket,clutchingtightlytothefabricofmypants.Itkeepsmyarmstiff,butthat’sbetterthanlettingitflyallovertheplace.It’sjustmyleftarm,andI’mright-handed,soIcanstillgoaroundanddoeverythingIusedtodo.Myheadmovementsare theworst,noddingupanddownalmostconstantly,

butI’velearnedIcancontrolit,atleastinpart,byflexingmyneckmusclesashardasIcan.Whennoone’swatchingIholdmyheadwithmyrighthand,orbraceitagainstthewall,orslouchdowninachairandpressmyheadagainsttheback.Itworkswellenough.Nobody’snoticedityet.Isuppose they thinkI’mweird,keepingmyhandshovedintomypocketall

dayandslouchingdowninchairsandcorners,butthatdoesn’tbotherme.TheyalreadythinkI’mcrazy,right?Aslongastheydon’ttakeawaythedrugs.I’malittleworriedaboutDr.Vanek’swarning—thatthedyskinesiabecomes

permanent after too long—but the drugs are worth the risk. I’m cured now:literallycuredofallmyhallucinations.Ihaven’tseenanymaggotsorFacelessMen;Ihaven’theardanyweirdsoundsorphantomfootsteps.AlloftheterrorsI’velivedwithforyearafteryeararecompletelyfalse—nightmaresIthoughtIcouldneverwakeupfrom.Iknowthatnow.AndIneverwanttolosethatagain.Idon’tknowhowtoexplainwhatit’slike—tosuddenlywakeuponemorning

andnotfeelpsychoticanymore.Tobefreeofthebuzzinginmyears,thevoicesin my head, the twitching shadows on the edge of my vision. Some of mysecondarysymptomsarestillthere,ofcourse—youcan’tjustturnoffalifelongphobiaofcellphonesjustbecausethefalsecauseofthephobiahasfinallybeenremoved.Istillfeelparanoidsometimes,andscared,andworriedthatassoonasI letmyguarddown,something—Idon’tknowwhat—isgoing to jumpoutofthedarkness.IneverrealizedjusthowscaredIusedtobe,allthetime,thinkingaboutrunningandhidingandall thewaysthemonstersweretryingtokillme.Losingthat is likelearningtobreathefor thefirst time.ThedirtywindowI’vebeenlookingthroughisfinallyclean,andtheviewtotheothersideisglorious.IfIcanholdmyheadstilllongenoughtolookthroughit.Mealsare thehardestpart. Ican’tholdmyheadbecause Ineedmyhand to

feedmyself,andIcan’tmufflemyteethbecausethewaddedfabricinmymouthstopsmefromchewing.Ihavetotakeitout,andgritmyteethaslongasIcan,andflexmyneckuntilitfeelslikemyheadisgoingtoburst.Onebiteatatime:pickupapieceoffood,raiseittomymouth,openwide,andholdstillandtrytoget it inwithoutknocking the foodand the forkand thewhole trayacross theroom.Chew slowly; carefully. Pick up another piece of food and do it again.Everymealisaslongasalifetime,andwhenIfinisheatingIhideinmyroomandlieonmybedexhausted,twitchingandshakinguntilIfeelmybrainrattlinginmyskull.Todayismeatloafandmashedpotatoes;easytocut,easytoswallow.Ibarely

evenhavetochew,thoughthat’shardlyaproblemwithmyjawclatteringlikeawind-upmonkey.HalfwaythroughthemealIseeDr.Littlewatchingmefrom

acrosstheroom,andIflexmyneckevenharder,feelingmyfacegoredwiththeeffort,doingeverythingIcantostaystill.Raisethefork,openthemouth,chew.Dr.Littlecomestowardme,andmyheartsinks.Pleasedon’tnoticeme.“That’sremarkable,”hesays.Ismile,forcingmylipstomoveandmychintostaystill.“Thankyou.”The

wordsareagruelingeffort.“What’s.Remarkable?”“Yourself-control,”hesays.“YouhideitsowellIdon’t thinkIwouldhave

noticedifLindahadn’traisedthesuspicioninherlastreport.”Mywords are slow andmeasured. “I haven’t done.Anythingwrong.” I set

downmyforkandrestmyhandinmychin,hopingitlooksnatural.“Oh,”hesaysquickly.“Ohno,ofcourseyouhaven’tdoneanythingwrong;

we’retryingtohelpyou,notpunishyou.Butyourtardivedyskinesiaisback,theinvoluntarymovementswetalkedaboutbefore.Youhideitwell,butit’ssimplynotsafe.Yourdrugswillhavetobeswitched.”“No,” I shake my head, my control slipping. “Please don’t take. Me off

Seroquel.Itworks.It.Clearsupeverything.I’veneverfeltlikethis.Before.”“You’retradingamentalprisonforaphysicalone,”hesays,shakinghishead.

“It’snotworthit.We’llstartyouonClozariltomorrowmorning.”Startingoverfromscratch—alowdoseofabrand-newdrug. I feelmyeyes

growhot,andmyvoiceisaraggedwhisper.“Itwillall.Comeback.”“Probably,”hesays.Hisplasticsmileisgone;helooksatmeimpassively,the

closestDr.Littleevergetstosympathy.“Yourhallucinationswill likelyreturn,foratime,butClozarilisveryeffectiveandyoushouldbebackinshapeagainsoon.”“Pleasedon’t—”“I’m sorry,Michael. It’s for your own good.” He walks away, summoning

Devonandpullingouthisprescriptionpad,andIfeelmylifecrumblingaroundme.

FOURTEEN

IGETNOSEROQUEL thatevening,andallnight longI lieawakeinbedwhiletheworldaroundmewarpsandcurdles.Myroomisfullofnoises;thehallandthehospitalandthewholecitybeyonditechoeswithshoutsandhornsandscrapesandhowls.Ihavenowayofknowingif they’rereal.Shouldthedrugswearoffthisquickly?It’s nearly one in themorningwhen I see a light in the corner ofmy clock

radiodisplay—atinyreddotIdon’trememberseeingbefore.Isitwatchingme?WasIafoolthiswholetime,eatinguptheirpsychobabbleandbelievingitwasall a delusion and letting down my guard? But I’m just freaking out; it’sprobablycompletely innocent.But thenwhy is thatdot there? I liestill just incase,showingthemnothing.Clickclickclickclick.InthemorningDr.Littlearriveswithanewnurse—notoneoftheregularcare

nursesbutaclinicaltechI’veneverseenbefore.Shecarriesatrayofneedlesandtubes.There’saguardbehindthem,largeandsomber.“Goodmorning,Michael!”Dr.Littlehashissmilepastedonagain,broadand

delighted,hiseyeswideandslightlybuggyunderhisglasses.“Sleepwell?”Iglanceattheclockradio,justbarely,andhefollowsmygazeandhissmile

neverfalters.“AsItoldyouyesterday,”hesays,“we’restartingyouthismorningonadrug

calledClozaril.”I glance at the nurse, setting her tray of needles on my dresser. “It’s an

injection?”“It doesn’t have to be,” he says, holding up a small plastic cupwith a tiny

yellowpill;Ilookcloserandseethatit’sbeenclippedinhalf.“Twelvepointfive

milligrams,”hesays,“sosmallyoudon’tevenneedwater,thoughofcoursewebroughtyousome.”Hesmilesagain,andthenursesitsmeupinthebed.“Eitherway,though,weneedtodrawalittleofyourblood.Nothingfrightening,justatest.”I hold outmy armwhile the nurse ties a plastic tube aroundmy bicep. “Is

theresomethingyoucandowithmyblood?Somethingaboutthedyskinesia?”Iftheycan,maybeIwon’tneedanewdrugafterall.“I’mafraidnot,Michael; thedyskinesiawillhave togoawayon itsownor

notatall,andwesincerelyhopethatwe’vediscontinuedtreatmentearlyenoughtoberidofit.Thegoodnewsis,Clozarilbearsanextremelylowriskoftardivedyskinesia,amerefractionoftheotherneurolepticsyou’vetried.It’snotevenaconcern, really, though naturally we’ll keep an eye on you just in case.” Thenurseswabsmyarmwithdisinfectant,on the insideof theelbow,andprepsasyringe.ShepricksmeinabulgingveinandbeginstodrawoutbloodwhileDr.Littlecontinues.“Ontopofthat,Clozarilishappilythemosteffectivedrugwehaveforthetreatmentofschizophrenia,andnowthatyou’reonit—”“Wait,”Isay,“it’s themosteffective,andithasnosideeffects?Whydidn’t

youjuststartwithit,then?”“Ididn’tsay ithadnosideeffects,Michael, Isaid that tardivedyskinesia is

not one of them. Clozaril runs a very high risk of blood and heart disorders,hence theblood test—we’llbe testingyourbloodagaineveryfourdays toseewhat kind of effect the drug is having, and we need a healthy baseline ofcomparison.”“What?”Thenurseslidestheneedleoutofmyarm,pressingdownontheholewitha

wadofcottonandbendingmyelbowclosedtoholditinplace.Iputpressureonthecottonandstandupangrily.“Thisisgoingtogivemeaheartdisorder?”“Not with regular blood tests, no. You’ll be perfectly safe.Without regular

blood tests…yes. The risk is actually quite high,which iswhywe only useClozarilforcaseslikeyoursthatprovehighlyresistanttotreatment.”“Thatdoesn’tsound‘perfectlysafe’tome.”“Iapologizeforthewordchoice,Michael.”Heoffersmethecupwiththepill,

butIdon’ttakeit.“Nothingis‘perfectly’safe.Butyou’reinahospital,Michael

—you’resurroundedbydoctorsandnurseseveryhouroftheday,withmedicalfacilitiescloseathandifthere’severanemergency.”“Istheregoingtobeanemergency?”“We’redoingeverythingwecantopreventone.”“Youneedmyconsentforsomethinglikethis.”“Wehaveyourfather’sconsent.”Hesmiles.“Hesignedlastnight.”Istareathimforamoment,thenturnaway.I’mamentalpatient;Idon’tgetto

makemyownchoicesanymore.Itakeadeepbreathandrunmyhandthroughmyhair,tryingtothink.“Look,Michael,”saysDr.Little,steppingcloser.“TheSeroquelwasworking,

and you knew it—you loved it.Youwere finally free. Iwant to help you getback to that point but this is the only thing I can give you. There are risks, Iadmit,buteverythingelsehasmorerisks.”Heholdsoutthecup.“Thesymptomsand the hallucinations are all going to start coming back—slowly at first, butthen more and more as the Seroquel washes out of your system. It will takeawhile for theClozaril tobuildyoubackup to the samepoint,but the sooneryoustartit,thesooneryourproblemswillallgoawayagain.”I closemyeyes.He’s right—heart disorderornot, I don’twant tobe like I

was. Ican’t live like thatagain,and thisdrug’seithergoing tocuremeorkillme, and aren’t those the only options anyway? I turn back, darting a quickglanceathiseyes,thenattheradio.Thereddotisstillthere,anunblinkingeye.Thenursehasmybloodinavialonhertray,allreadytogo.Dr.Littlepushesthecupcloser.Itakeitfromhishand.Halfatablet.Apalecrescentmoonnowiderthananail.Idropitinmymouthandswallow.Idon’tevenfeelitgoingdown.

***

“MICHAEL.”There’snooneintheroom.Igobacktomyjigsawpuzzle.“Michael,it’sme.Theonewho’stryingtohelpyou.”“You’renotreal.”“OfcourseI’mreal,I’masrealasyouare.”“You’reavoiceinmyhead.”

“Don’t believe their lies,Michael, you’re not crazy—they’re studying you.You’rearatinamaze.”Ilookup.“Ifyou’rereal,whereareyou?”“I’minthevent.”“That’simpossible.”“Myvoiceisinthevent;mybody’sinthenextroom.”“ShouldIgothereandlook?”“Youcan’tletthemsee—youcan’tletthemknowwe’reworkingtogether.”“We’renotworkingtogether.”“WehavetokillDr.Little,Michael—he’stheonekeepingyouhere.It’syour

onlywayout.”I stand up abruptly, storming to the door and running to the next room:

Gordon’sroom.There’snoonethere.Ilookunderthebed,behindthechairs;Ievenopenthedresserdrawers.Noone.Igobacktomyroomanddothesame,searching under and behind everything I can find, but there’s no one hidinganywhere. I push the heavy chair in front of the air vent and go back tomypuzzle.The voice is muffled. “You’re such an idiot, Michael; you’re a useless,

worthless,brainlessidiot!KillDr.Littleandgetoutofhere!Areyouacoward?”Iscrapethepuzzlepiecesbackintotheirboxandtakethemtothecommons

room.Thevoicekeepsshoutingatme,andIcountoutloudtodrownitout.

***

I SLEEP INMY CHAIR, the blankets piled on top of the clock on thedresser.InfourdaysIgetanotherbloodtest,andwhentheresultscomebackDr.Little approves a raise in my dose. The voice in the air vent goes away, butShauna tellsme thatpatientwas transferredanyway. I eatbymyself; I talk toLindaaboutmyfather.InfourmoredaysIhaveanotherbloodtest,andnowI’mgetting twenty-five milligrams of Clozaril twice a day, and of course Shaunaisn’treal.Iknowthat.AfterawhileIdon’tcovertheclockanymore,butIstilldon’tgonearit.It’sa

lifelonghabit,andhabitsarehardtobreak.Lindasaysthelittlethings,likebeingscaredofphones and stuff like that, are the last togobecause they’re learned

behaviors, not psychiatric disorders, and it will take time to unlearn them.They’reasanereactiontofalsedata,andnowthatI’mperceivingrealdata,moreorless,thetherapywillhelpmyreactionsshifttomatch.IcanwatchTVnow,pluggedinandturnedonandeverything.Dr.LittlesaysIgetbettereveryday,butIstillhavesymptomsandhe’sraising

mydose.Dr.Vanekisstillworkingonmymemory,doingeverythingfromdrugsto hypnosis, but the holes are still there. I don’tmind somuch.Whywould Iwanttorememberbeingcrazy?BythetimetheFBIcomesback,Ihaven’thadahallucinationinnearlytwo

weeks.Ifigurethatmeanstheagentsareprobablyreal.Devontakesmeintothesmalltherapyroom.There’sonlyonethistime,the

tallerone.Hesmilesandholdsouthishandtoshake.“Goodafternoon,Mr.Shipman,I’mAgentJonLeonardwiththeFBI.Doyou

rememberme?”“Weretheretwoofyoulasttime?”“Yeah,mypartner,AgentChu.”“Justmakingsure.”Hegestures to the chair opposite his, and I nodpolitely. It’s a real nod this

time, thoughtheyaren’talways; thedyskinesiahasn’t fullygoneaway.Idon’tmindsomuch,sinceIgotmywholelifeinexchange.Devonleavesus,shuttingthedoorbehindhim,andAgentLeonardsitsdown.Isitaswell,watchinghim.“DidyoufindthemanIsaw?”“Wedid.”“And?”“Nothing. His name is Nick; he was applying for a job here. He wasn’t

faceless,hewasn’tanauthorityfigure,hewasn’tanythingtobeafraidof.”“Ifiguredasmuch.”Isitback,sighinginrelief.“Youhavenoideahowgreat

itistohearthat.”Heraisesaneyebrow.“Youdon’tbelieveintheconspiracyanymore?”“Ihaveschizophrenia,AgentLeonard.Theconspiracywasallinmyhead.”Henods,eyeingmefromacrossthetable.“WhatdoyouknowabouttheRed

Linekillings?”“Notmuch,” I sayhonestly, trying togaugehis reactions as I talk.Doeshe

stillthinkI’mapartofthem?“Ihada,uh,longtimephobiaofTVsandradios,soIneverreallyheardaboutthekillingsuntilIgotinhere.”Ilaughnervously.“Totellyouthetruth,Iwaskindofhopingitwouldallturnouttobejustoneofmyhallucinations,andnotberealatall.”Leonardlaughsaswell,ashallowchuckle.“No,Michael,I’msorrytosaythat

theRedLinemurdersareveryreal.Whatelsedoyouknowaboutthem?”He’sfishingforsomethinghecanpinonme,Ithink,andthenimmediatelyI

tell myself I’m wrong. I’m just being paranoid—no one’s out to get me. HeprobablyjustthinksI’mawitness.Justcalmdownandeverythingwillbefine.I shakemyhead. “Idon’tknowanythingelse. I don’t evenknowwhy they

callhimtheRedLine.”Hechucklesagain.“Mostlyjustasickjoke,really.Thefirstdetectiveonthe

case—alocalguy,notafed—wasabigBlackhawksfan.”“Hockey?”Henods.“Youwatchhockey?”Ishakemyhead.“TVphobia.”“Ohyeah.Well,thisguywasabigfan,andhecalledthecrimescenethe‘Red

Line’becausethat’swhereyouhaveaface-off.”Igrimace.“Seriously?”“Itoldyouitwaskindofsick.”Ifidgetinmychair,suddenlyanxiousagainatthementionofmissingfaces.

“But theydon’thaveanythingtodowithme,right?”I’mtoonervousnowforsubtlety. “I mean, just because I saw Faceless Men and, and stuff like that,doesn’tmeanI’mthekiller,right?”Myarmtwitches;themovementsgetworsewhenI’mnervous.“Doyoustillseethem?”heasks.“TheFacelessMen?”Ifreeze,toonervoustoanswer.Hewaits,thenraisesaneyebrow.“Michael?”“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead.“Ihaven’tseentheminweeks.”“Excellent,”hesays,smiling.“Youhavenoideahowlongwe’vewaitedfor

thechancetotalktoyou,butyourdoctorwouldn’tletusbackinuntiltoday.”“BecauseI’mcured?”“Becauseyou’relucid.”

Inod.Hestilldidn’tanswermyquestion.Ifeelcoldandsmall.“You’reaware,”hesays,pullinghisbriefcaseupfromthefloor,“ofwhothe

RedLineKillerseemstobetargeting?”Inodagain.“TheChildrenoftheEarth.”“Precisely,”hesays,opening thebriefcasewithasharpclick.“Andwhatdo

youknowaboutthatorganization?”“It’snotanorganization,”Isaydarkly,“it’sacult.”“Fairenough,”hesays,“butascultsgothisoneisremarkablywellorganized.

Theyowna farm; they sell fruit andcheese in standsby thehighway; they’realmostfullyself-sufficient.Theonlythingtheybuyfromthestateiswater.”“Nopower?”“They’ve refused electrical power for nearly two decades,” he says. “They

even toredown thepower lines thatused toconnect them.They’repracticallyLuddites—theymaketheAmishlookhightech.”I swallow nervously. Why does that make me so scared? I rub my hands

together,tryingtowarmthem.“Whatdoesthishavetodowithme?”“Twothings.”Hereachesintothebriefcaseandholdsupapieceofpaperwith

a long list of names. “One: of the thirteen Red Line victims, nine have beenmembersoftheChildrenoftheEarth.Theotherfourwereconnectedindirectly,friendsandfamilyandsoon.”Hesetsdownthepaperandpicksupwhatlookslike a legal document. “Two: at present day the cult resides in a farmingcommune outside of Chicago, centered around the former home of MilosCerny.”Thatcatchesmyattention.“TheMilosCerny?Thekidnapper?”“I’mafraidso.Butthat’snoteventheweirdpart.”Hesetsdownthedocument

andholdsupanother listofnames,shorter than thefirst.“Of thefivechildrenrecovered from the house ofMilosCerny twenty years ago, four of them ranawayfromhometojointheChildrenoftheEarth,atagesrangingfromfourteento seventeen. Theywere found by the police, of course, andwere returned totheir parents, but as soon as they cameof age and their parents couldn’t holdthem,boom,straightbacktothecult.Everyoneofthem.”Hepauses.“Exceptyou.”Ifrown,notsurewhattosay.I’mnotevensurewhattothink.“Werethey…”I

feel faint, likemyheart isbeating toofast.“Thecultists—did theyhelpCernyabductthewomen?Didtheyhelpkillthem?Whyaren’ttheyinjail?”“Someof themwere,”he says, trying tocalmme, “butonlyas accessories,

andallofthemhavecompletedtheirsentencesorbeenreleasedonparole.”Isitbackinmychair.“Youcan’tbeserious.”“I’mafraidit’salltrue.NowyouseewhyIcametotalktoyou.”“Youthinkthey’regoingtotrytocontactme?”“Frankly, I’m astonished that they haven’t already done so. Once the other

four children started drifting back to the cult,we contacted your father to askaboutyou;wegot in touchwithyourschool.Yourname’sbeenflagged in thesystemforvirtuallyas longaswe’vehadasystem,but there’sneverbeenanysign, that we could see, that you’d been contacted.Wewere hoping that youmightbeabletotellusmore.”“Wait,”Isay,pushingmychairbackfromthetable.“Youmeantotellmethat

Ireallyhavebeenundergovernmentsurveillance?AllthistimeIthoughtIwasparanoid,orcrazy,andnowI’minthisdamnmadhousetakingdrugslikethey’recandy,andyou’retellingmeit’strue?”“Michael—”“Isittheclocks?Areyoutheoneswatchinginthere?Andwhataboutthe—”“Michael,”hesays,moreforcefully this time,“pleasecalmdown.Youhave

not been ‘under surveillance,’ you’ve been flagged in the system. That’s verydifferent—itjustmeansthatifyouevershowuponapolicereport,oramedicalreport,oranythinglikethat,IgetalittleemailandIreadit.That’sallitis.”“You’vebeenwatchingme.”“I’vebeenprotectingyou.Listen,Michael,thepeoplethatkidnappedyouand

yourmotherareoutthere,andthey’retiedupinanotherstringofmurders,andIam doing everything I can to figure it out. Our best theory right now is thatthey’re killing dissenters; anyonewho leaves or speaks out against the cult. Ineedtoknowifthey’vecontactedyou,becausethatmightgivemesomekindoflead—”“Howdidtheycontacttheothers?”“Wehavenoidea.Onedaythekidsjustgotupandleft;nobodycalledthem,

nobodydrovethem,byallappearancestheydiditcompletelyontheirown.”

“Thatdoesn’tmakesense.”“You’retellingme.Listen, there’sgottobesomething,somewhere, thatyou

cantellme.Alettershovedunderadoor,astrangeronthestreet,something.”I laugh, frustrated and confused. “I’ve had imaginary men chasing me for

years.Maybetheywerethecontact.”He starts to speak, but suddenly I’m flat inmy chair,writhing in pain, and

AgentLeonard’spocketringsloudly.“Shutitoff!”Iforcemyselftositbackup,clutchingmyheadwithonehand

and reaching forhimwith theother.Myarmpulseswith thesamesyncopatedraspasthecomputerspeakersinDr.Little’sexperiment.“Areyouokay?”“Turnoffthecellphone!”Hepullsoutthephone,browfurrowedinconfusion,thenclicksabutton.The

ringingstops,andmyheadachestartstofade.Hestaresatthephoneinshock.Irubmytemples,groaninginpain.“That’snotsupposedtohappenanymore.”Helooksup,andhiseyesgetwider.“Yournoseisbleeding.”Itouchmylipandhe’sright;myfingerscomeawayslickandred,andIcan

feeltheblooddribblingdownmylips.Ishakemyhead.“That’snotsupposedtohappen.”“What’sgoingon?”“GetDr.Little.”“Areyouokay?”“Ineedhimnow!”Ishout,andgotothedoormyself.“GetDr.Littleinhere!”

Theheadacheexplodesagain,suddenanddevastating,andIfallagainstthewallinacringe.IturnaroundtoseeAgentLeonardholdinghisphonetohisear.“Areyoucallingsomeone,youidiot?”Istaggerbackandsnatchthephonefromhishand,throwingitagainstthewall.Thesignalstops,theheadachecalms,andIletoutalong,exhaustedbreath.“Whatthehell?”shoutsAgentLeonard.Dr.Littlerushesin.“What’swrong?”I gesture at the broken phone. “I had another headache from a cell signal.

Two,thankstohim.”“Hey,” says Leonard, picking up the phone; the back has come off, and he

collectsthebatteries.“You can’t have had another cell phone attack,” says Dr. Little. “That’s a

psychosomaticdelusionandyourmedicationpreventsthose.”“Yeah,well,apparentlynot,”Isay.“It’snotapsychosomatic…whatever.It’s

aphysicalthing—I’vebeentellingyouthatsinceIgothere.There’ssomethinginmyhead!”Dr.Littleshakeshishead.“Thereisnothinginyourhead,Michael—”“Wait,”saysAgentLeonardslowly.“Whatifthereis?”Dr.Littlenarrowshiseyes.“Excuseme?”“I’ve seen this reaction before,” he says, “on the security camera at

ChemCom.Right before theRedLine killed the janitor, the janitor had somekindof suddenmigraine, just likewhatyou justhad. Italmost looked like theheadachewarned him of the attack, butwe didn’t understand how—but if hereacted to cell phone signals, like youdo, then that couldbewhat tippedhimoff.”Dr.Littlefrowns.“YouthinktheRedLinehadacellphone?”“Everyonehasacellphone.”Ishakemyhead.“Idon’t.IguessthatmeansI’mnotthekiller.”“But you are a potential victim,” says Agent Leonard, “just like Brandon

Woodsandtheothercultists.”“I’mnotacultist,”Ihissed.“Buttheremightbesomethinginyourhead,”saysLeonard,“likeachipora

beacon or… I don’t know. Something. If Cerny implanted something in thebabieshekidnapped,likeacommunicator,thatcouldbehowtheotherchildrenwere contacted and brought back into the cult.Maybe they all have one.”Heshrugs.“Maybeyoursisfaulty,andthat’swhyyouneverwentback.”“Itoldhimsomethingjustlikethatalmosttwomonthsago,”Isay,jerkingmy

headtowardDr.Little,“butI’mthecrazyguysonoonelistenstome.”Dr.Littleshakeshishead.“Nowyoubothsoundinsane.”AgentLeonardlooksatDr.Little.“Iknow,andIagree,butthereare…other

factorsatplayhere.Wesawcertainthingsonthattape,whichIamnotatlibertytodiscuss,butwhichleadouragencytobelievethatthisinvestigationgoeswellbeyondwhatwe typicallyconsider tobenormal.A tracking implantwouldbe

oneoftheleastinsaneexplanationswe’vecomeupwith.”Dr.Littlepurseshislips.“Twomonthslater,allthingsconsidered,thetheory

doesn’tseementirelyoutofthequestion.”“Soifthere’sreallysomethinginhishead,”saysLeonard,“howwouldwego

aboutfindingit?”Dr. Little pastes his broad smile back across his face. “This is a mental

hospital,AgentLeonard.Finding things in people’s heads is our specialty. I’llscheduleanMRIfirstthingtomorrowmorning.”

FIFTEEN

DR.VANEKSTORMSINTOMYROOMinafury.“Youcan’tletthemgiveyouanMRI!It’soutofthequestion.”“Calmdown,”Isay,closingmyeyes.“Thisishardenoughformetodealwith

withoutyouinherestirringupallmyoldtwitches.”“You’regoingthroughwithit?”Iopenoneeye, lookingupfrommychairashestorms through theroomin

directionlessagitation.“Yes,I’mgoingthroughwithit,it’sthesmartestthingtodo.”“It’sanMRI,”hesays.“Which is completely harmless, as you toldme yourself the last time I got

one.”“AmInotallowedtobewrongonoccasion?”Hestopspacingandpointsat

mewithathickfinger.“Westilldon’tknowwhyyoulostyourmemory,andI’vebeengoingovertheevidenceforweeksandtheonlygoodleadistheMRI.”“Ifelloutofawindow;Iprobablyhitmyhead.”“TheMRIconfirmedthatyoudidn’t.”“Becausethat’swhatanMRIdoes,”Isay.“Itlooksatyourbrainandtellsyou

ifthere’saproblem.Nowwe’regoingtouseitagaintoconfirmthatIdoordonothaveaforeignobjectinsideofmyskull.”“Andifyoudo,”hesays,“theMRIwillinteractwithitagain,justlikeitdid

before, and frankly we’ll be lucky if two weeks of memory is all you lose.Assuming there’s actually an electronic device in your head, and knowingabsolutelynothingaboutwhatitisorhowitworks,it’sunconscionablystupidtobombarditwithradiation.”“Iamtryingtogetbetter!”Ishout.“I’mtryingtogetridofmydelusionsand

workthroughallmyphobias,andnothingyouaresayingishelping!”“It’snothelpingbecauseyou’renotlistening!”“I don’t have any say in it anyway,” I say, shakingmy head. “You people

haven’t let me decide anything for myself since you put me in here, so stopyellingatmeandtalktoDr.Little.”“I’vealreadytalkedtohim,andhe’smorestubbornaboutitthanyouare.”“Thentalktomyfather.”Heshakeshishead.“AnMRIisnotconsideredadangeroustest,sotheydon’t

needyourfather’sapproval.”“Hecouldrefuse treatment, though, right?”Ishift in thechair, suddenlynot

surewhichsideI’marguingfor.Idon’twanttobeafraidoftheMRI,butIam.“Imean, ifmy father demanded that you not do the test, you’d have to stop,right?Like thosereligiousgroups that refusemedical treatment—dangerousornot,youstillhavetofollowthewishesofthepatientorthepatient’sguardian.”“It’sapossibility,”saysVanekthinly,“butdependingonyourfather’sparental

concernhasnevergottenusanywherebefore.”“Then…,”Ithrowupmyhands.“Thenjustforgetit,andI’llgettheMRI,and

we’llbefine.”Mypulsequickensatthethoughtofit—thegianttube,thewhirrofmagnetsandmotors,theinvisiblemenaceofathickmagneticfieldslammingthroughmybody.Iclosemyeyesagainandfightoffthewaveofpanic.“It’sallinmyhead;nothing’sgoingtohurtme.”Dr.Vanekgrunts,adeepgrowlofanger.“Thefactthatit’sallinyourheadis

precisely the problem.” He looks at me sternly. “We still haven’t figured outwhathappenedduringthetwoweeksyoulost.”“Weneverwill,”Isay.“It’sallgone.”“Memoriesdon’tdisappear,Michael,onlyouraccesstothem.Whateveryou

saw,ordid,duringthosetwoweeksisstillinyourhead.Youjustneedawaytogetitout.”Inod.“Lucysaidthesamething.”“Lucy is a dream,” Vanek snarls. “Focus on reality. Can you remember

anything?”“I rememberanemptycity,” Isay.“Anda…apit.Likeadeepblackhole.

That’stherootofitall—ithastobe.”

“Ignoretheholefornow,”saysVanek.“Focusontheemptycity.Remembereverylittledetailyoucanthinkof.”“Whydoesthisevenmatter?”“Because your mind is important,” he says, “to me at least, if not to you.

Becauseyouneedtoproveyou’renotakiller,nowmorethanever.Because…becausewedon’tknow.Youaresurroundedbymysteries,Michael.Thosetwoweeksmightbeabletoanswersomeofthem,maybeallofthem.Ifyou’regoingtoriskerasingevenmoreofyourownmind, the leastyoucandoisrecover itfirst.Writeitdownsoitdoesn’tjust…disappear.”“I…”He’s right. If Ican rememberwhere Iwas—what I saw,what Idid—

thenIcanknowforsurethatnoneofitisreal.“I’lldoit.I’llremember—I’lltryashardasIcan.”Ilookup.“Whatareyougoingtodo?”“I’mgoing to stop this idiocy.”He stalks to the door. “I’mgoing to talk to

yourfather.”

***

IREPEATTHEPHRASEoverandover,allevening,tryingtokeepmyselfcalm:It’sallinmyhead;nothing’sgoingtohurtme.Mydelusionsaregone,myhallucinationsaregone,andI’mbacktothewayIwasattheendoftheSeroquel—I’m better, actually, because I don’t have any of the other side effects likefatigue and muscle aches. Even the dyskinesia is almost completely gone.There’snothingtobeafraidof.Thetestwon’thurtmebecausethereasonsI’mafraidofitareallbasedonstupid,crazythingsIdon’tevenbelieveanymore.It’sjusthabit.I’mfine.It’sallinmyhead.I’mtoorestlesstostayinbed,soIgetupandpacearoundthefloor,watching

the clock, wishing I had a window. I realize I haven’t seen the stars in twomonths—we have outside windows in the commons room, but we’re only inthereduringtheday.Theimpulseseizesme,andbeforeIknowwhatI’mdoingI’mopeningmydoor,listeningforthenightguard,andslippingdownthehallinbarefeet.Thecommonsroomisvastanddark,faintlylitbymoonlightfromthewindows and harsh yellow light from the nurses’ station down the hall. ThesoundofaTVdriftsthroughtheair.We’renotallowedoutofourroomsatnight,

butifI’mquietshewon’tevenknowI’mhere.Itraceapaththroughthetablesandchairsandcometothewindow,leaning

againstthemetalgrateandpeeringupintothesky.Thebarsarecoldagainstmycheek.The city lights are bright, turning thedark skypale, but the clouds arethinandthebrighteststarsshinethrough.Icancountmaybeadozen.Half theskyisblockedbytheneighboringbuilding,andImovetothenextwindow,thenthe next, looking for a better view. The stars are tiny, barely visible from theheartofthecity.Ipressmyfaceagainstthegrateandstare.The sky is a geometric puzzle, cut apart and pieced together by coldmetal

bars.Ihearfootstepsbehindme.Iturnquickly,notwantingtogetcaught,butthe

noise isstillsomewheredownthehall; Ihaven’tbeenseenyet,butIcan’tgetback tomy room.Moving fromwindow towindowhasbroughtme to the farend of the room, to theTV area, so I slip behind a couch and lay down.Thefootsteps come closer, but there’s another sound with them—a high-pitchedsqueak,looseandintermittent.Itseemsvaguelyfamiliar.Icreeptotheedgeofthecouchandlookoutjustintimetoseeadarkfigurecomeoutofthehallway,pushingamopanda rollingbucket.The janitor. I’veheardhiswheelsbefore,butI’veneverseenhim.Likethestars,heonlycomesoutatnight.Ipullbackbehindthecouch,waitingforhimtocontinuetothegateandleave,

but instead the squeaking stops. I peek out again and see him standing in thedark—notmopping,notmoving, juststanding. I thinkhehassomething inhishands, somethingwide and flat, but I don’t know how he could see it in thislight.Ihideagain.This is stupid.He’s justa janitor—hedoesn’tcare if I’moutofmy room. I

shouldgobacknow,beforetheguardshowsup,andeverythingwillbefine.Ineedtostopbeingsoparanoid.Ishakemyheadandtakeadeepbreath.I’vebeeninherefortwomonths;I

feelbetterthanIeverhave.I’mpracticallycured.IfthelastfewthingsIneedtodealwitharethesestupid,lingeringfearsthenthebestthingtodoistofacethemhead-on.Istandup.Thejanitor’smoppingthefloor,backingslowlytowardmeashegoes.Iweavearoundalongtableandcalloutsoftly.“Excuseme,Ijustneedtogetbacktomyroom—”

And thenhe turns around, and theworld stops, andmyheart freezes inmychest.Hehasnoface.“Um. Um.” My mouth is babbling by itself, my brain too shocked to do

anything.Theman lowershismopand takesa step towardme.Hisvoice isathinwhisper.“Michael.”Ican’ttalk.Hedropsthemopwithaloudclatterandcomestowardme,slow

stepsat first,butas Ibackawayhebreaks intoa run.Myeyesgowideand Istumble, trippingoverametalchair.He’salmoston topofmenow,his faceadarkblurofnothing, and suddenlypanic takesover—apureanimal instinct—andIpickupthemetalchair,swingitaroundinafullarc,andslamitintohisblank,horrifyingfacerightashelungesthelastfewfeettotackleme.HefliestothesideandIstaggerbackward,carriedby thechair’smomentum.Hehits thefloorwithaheavy smash, scattering twomorechairs ashe lands. I fall tomyknees,clutchingmymakeshiftweapon,waitingfortheguardorthenightnursetocomerunning,butnobodycomes.TheTVfromthenurse’sstationdronesinthebackground.Didnobodyhearme?Iwatchthefallenbody,ashapelessblackshadow,butitdoesn’tmove.Slowly

Istandup,creepingforward,noddingcompulsively;I’mtoodistractedtobothertryingtostopit.Themanliescompletelystill.He’snotbreathing.Ikilledhim.

SIXTEEN

IGLANCEUPAGAIN,lookingfortheguard,butnoone’scoming.Iwalkaroundthetableandcreepclosertothefallenbody,pausingasIgetwithinarm’sreach. Nothing. I pick up a fallen chair and set it aside, moving closer. Thejanitor lies on his stomach, his face—if he has one—to the floor. I prod himcautiously, getting no response, then jab him harder in the stomach.When hestilldoesn’tmoveIstandup,glancingaroundagain,andgrabhimbythearm,haulinghimoverontohisback.Herollsheavily.InthedimmoonlightIcanseehimmoreclearly, and it’s true—stunningly, shockingly true.Hehasno face. Imove my head and the air around his face seems to ripple and fold. I reachtowardhim,mybreathcatchinginmythroat,irrationallyconvincedhe’sgoingto lungeup andgrabme.He stays still. I reach closer, simultaneously thrilledandhorrifiedbytheblankblur,morbidlydesperatetotouchit.Afootawaymyfingersstart tobuzzandI jerkmyhandback insurprise. It’s thesameelectricresonance I feel fromaclockoraTV. I reachoutagain,probing theair tobesure,andthereitisagain.I’veknownthatfeelingallmylife.Drugsornodrugs,itterrifiesme.The Faceless Men are real. I feel my pulse rushing through my chest and

arms,searingmyskinwithaviolentinnerheat.He’sreal.Istaggerawaytositon the floor and putmy head betweenmy knees. I’ve had 100milligrams ofClozaril in the last twelve hours; I haven’t seen or heard or smelled ahallucinationinweeks.Ilivealifededicatedtosnuffingouteveryconceivablepsychoticelement.Ican’tseeanythingunrealbecauseit’sphysically,medicallyimpossible.Andyethereheis.AFacelessMan.I pushmyself farther back, scooting away from the horror in the dark. He

knewmyname;hetriedtoattackme.Why?Whyishehere?Itdoesn’tmatterwhyhe’shere.Heis,andthatmeansthere’smore,andthat

meansIneed togetout—Ineed togetoutnow.Iclimb tomyfeet,crouchinglightly,readytorun.Where?Ishouldbesafeinhere;therearepeoplewatchingand protectingme. I shakemy head.Watchingme, yes, but protectingme? Ihavenoidea.Theworld seems to shift aroundme, spinningwildly, and I grip a table for

support.He’sreal,anactualFacelessMan,butdoes thatmeantherest isreal?TheclocksandthemaggotsandthecyanideinthehotwaterandallthethingsIthoughtandfearedandranfrom—isthatalltruetoo?WhataboutLucy?RealityshiftsaroundmesofastIcan’tkeepup.WhatifI’mhallucinatingagain?WhatifI’vekilledaninnocentman?Ishiverandgaspforair,tryingnottoretch.Hewas lookingatsomething. Icreepacross thefloor in thedark, the tables

turnedflatandjaggedinthedimmoonlightfilteringthroughthewindows.MyhandsrakesacrossashadowandIpullitbackquickly;somethingcutmyfinger.Iprobe thedarknesscarefullyandfindaclipboard,andwhenIpull it into themoonlightmybreathcatches inmy throat:clipped to theboard isapagewithmy name and photo, plus a short dossier. I holdmy breath, reading in shockthroughafulllistofallmysymptoms,myfullpolicehistory,arecordofeveryplaceI’velived.Theinformationrunsontothebackofthepage.Behindit,stucktothewoodenfaceof theclipboard, isaPost-itnotewithafour-digitnumber:4089.Iglanceatthekeypadonthegate;isthatwhatIthinkitis?Theguard’sbeengonetoolong;he’llbehereanyminute.Istandupandtake

astep,thenstopmyself:whatcanIevendo?IfI’mrightthenmynightmaresaretrue—thewholehospitalcouldbeinfiltrated—andifI’mwrongthenI’vekilledan innocent man. Either way I need to leave. I look back at the clipboard,tapping thegatecodewithmyfinger. If Ihide thebody theymightnot find ituntilmorning;IcouldbelonggonebythetimetheyevenknowI’mmissing.ButonlyifIworkquickly.I takethepapersoff theclipboardandshovethemdownmyshirt, thengrab

the janitorby thefeetandpullhimaroundthechairsanddownthehall tomyroom.Ipause,lookattheclock,thentossablanketoveritjustincase.Icheckthejanitor’swrist,hopingagainsthope.He’sstilldead.

I’ll never get out of the hospitalwearing patient’s pajamas so I pull off thejanitor’sdarkbluejumpsuitandpullitonovermyclothes.Asidefromhisface,theman’sbody lookscompletelynormal. Iheavehisbodyup into thebed, incase the guard looks in the window, and position him as best I can withouttouchinghishead.Ilistenforfootsteps,butthere’sstillnothing.Ineeddrugs;Ican’tleavewithoutdrugs.IfIstarthallucinatingagainI’mas

goodascaught.Islipintothehallandgrabthemophandle,pushingthebucketinfrontofme

andtryingtolooklikeajanitor.Ipauseatthenurses’station,eyeingthegauntletofelectronicsDr.Littlestillkeepsinthewindow.Thegate’srightthere,lessthanfifteen feet away. There’s no other way. I just have to deal with it. I pushforward, glancing through the door into the bright nurses’ station. Sharon thenightnurse is slumped forward inher chair,herheadon thedesk, thecoloredlightsfromtheTVdancingacrossherhair.What’sgoingon?I slip into the room quickly, searching for medicine cabinets, but there’s

nothing. Theymust store them somewhere else. I slip back out of the office,gasping,realizingIhadheldmybreaththewholetimeIwasintheoffice.Calmdown,Itellmyself,you’renotgettingoutofhereifyoudon’tcalmdown.Ican’trisk anymore timewandering through the hospital; I’ll have to get medicinesomewhereelse.Thehallwaybuzzeswithelectrical fields, andmyheadbuzzesback. Ipress

forward,grittingmyteeth,andtypeinthecodefromthePost-it.Itworks.Ipushthebucket throughandletoutagaspofbreathas thegateclosesbehindme.Ilowermyeyes,pushthroughthedoubledoors,andgo.Ifindthestairs;Ifindthelobby.I’moutside.I’mfree.Icanfeelwindonmyface,andsoftrainonmyhair,andwhenIlook

upIcanseethesky—notapieceofit,half-glimpsedthroughagratedwindow,but the whole thing, vast and dark and endless. I walk slowly, through thehospital parking lot and out to the street, never looking back, never hurrying,trying to look likeanormalguy leavinganormal job in themostnormalwaypossible.It’sjustafterthreeinthemorning.

Thejanitorhadsomechangeinhispocket,butnoidentification.Asmallringof unidentified keys. I assume he left his wallet and car keys in a lockersomewhere,butIdon’tdaregobacktolookforit.Thechangeisenoughforabus, if I decidewhere I’m going, andmaybe a cheap breakfast or a burger. Icould take the train,but theyhavecameras;once theyknow I’mgone, they’llstart checking around and they’d seemeon the train cameras.Dobuses havecamerastoo?Ican’triskpublic transit;Ineedtofindthenearestfreewayandhitcharide

outoftown.Getout,getgone,andneverlookback.ThefartherIgothebetter.TheFacelessMenarereal—I’mstillreelingfromthediscovery.IhavetogoasfarandasfastasIcan.Whatevertheyweretryingtodotome,I’veescaped,andIcan’teverletthemfindmeagain.Icometoanintersectionandwait,turningupmycollaragainsttherain.The

street is fullofcars,even in themiddleof thenight;darkblursandstreaksofreflectedlight.Thecityisalivewithlight,teemingwithlight,neonandhalogenand phosphorus screaming electrified photons in every direction. Even thepavement glows, gleaming back colored lights from puddles and gutters. Thetrafficlightssnapfromredtogreen;theflowoftrafficshiftsandImovewithitacrossthestreet.There’sacamerahangingovereachtrafficlight,andIkeepmyeyesdown.They’llhaveaccesstothosetoo.Ineedtogetsomewheresafe.Powell Psychiatric Hospital is in a relatively expensive part of town, a

businessdistrictwithofficebuildingsand treesandstorefronts. Iwalkanothercouple of blocks and the taller buildings fade away into gas stations and cardealerships,shorterandbrighter.Theskyissectionedbytallpolesandskeinsofwire.I’mnottheonlypersonoutintherain,andIwonderwhattheothersarerunningfrom.Ikeepgoing,movingawayfromthetrafficcamerasintotheback-streets of an industrial district: block walls and barbed wire and long, lonelywarehouses.Ipasssecuritygateswithmorecameras.Myclothesarewetandmylegsaretiredandsluggish.Iwiperainfrommyeyesandkeepwalking.Thefreeway,andthenoutoftown.It’smyonlychance.Iwalk past old dry cleaners and pawn shops, through slums and alleys and

businessparks,until at last I reacha freeway ramp. I standand rubmyhandstogether,stampingwithcold.Acarpasses,andIstickoutmythumb.Nothing.A

minute later another; traffic out of the city is practically nothing this time ofnight. I hold out my thumb to ask for a ride and the car drives past withoutslowing.Minutespass,andtheskygrowsslowlylighter.Threemorecars,thenfourmore,thennothing.Thetenthcarstops.“Needaride?”Ishufflecloser.“Whereyougoing?”“Manteno.Thatfarenough?”“Sure.”Ireachforthedoor.Istop.Themangesturesatthedoor.“Hopin.”Idon’tmove.Forthesecondtime,facedwithanopenescape,IknowthatI

can’t take it. There are toomany others—other victims, other children. Othercorpses. The FacelessMen are real, and it’s not enough to freemyself whentherearesomanypeoplestilltrappedinthePlan.Istilldon’tknowwhatthePlanis.“Heybuddy,youcoming?”Ilookupandcatchhiseyes.“Doyouhaveanewspaper?”“What?”Dr.Littletoldmetherewasagirl theretoseeme,andthenIwasvisitedby

two.Lucyturnedouttobeahallucination…whichmeansthereporterwasreal.“TheSun-Times,”Isay.“Doyouhaveacopy?”“NoIdon’t.Youwantarideornot?”“Nothankyou.Ihavetofindapaper.”“Whatever,man.”He rollsuphiswindowanddrivesaway. Iwalkback the

wayIcameandfindagarbagecanonthesidewalk,darkandhoodedandboltedtoastreetlight.Iwalkforwardslowly,consciousofthestarkyellowglowaboveme, and pull back the hinged metal lid. The can stinks like old food andoverflowswithtrash.Irootthroughitgingerly,avoidingtheworstofthesludge,and pull out a folded newspaper. Themorning is brighter now,weak sunlightfilteringthroughthenight’sgray.IfindKelly’snameontheseventhpageofthepaper,onastoryaboutanaccidentalshooting.KellyFischer.She’sreal.She’sacrimereporter,justlikeshesaid.Irefoldthepaperandlookforanumberinthemasthead—somecontact infoof anykind—and find a tip line. Iwalk another

block to find a pay phone—the only safe kind, with the signals curled intoshieldedcords insteadofbuzzing sharply through theair.Still frightening,butnotaspainful.Idropinaquarteranddial.Ring.Amachineanswerswithalistofbusinesshours;Ihangupinarush,breathing

heavily.Machinesarebadenoughwhentheydon’ttrytotalktome.Ilookattheslowlygrayingsky.It’sstillearly;Icanrestnowandcallagain

when she gets there for work. I find a place to curl up out of the rain—theentrancetoaparkinggarage.Idrapethepaperovermyheadandtrytosleep.Idreamofahollowcity,filledwithhollow,shamblingpeople.

***

RING.“Sun-Times.”“Ineedtotalktooneofyourreporters,”Isay.“KellyFischer.”“Who’scalling?”Ihesitate.Idon’twanttogivethemmyname.“AmbroseVanek.”“Onemoment.”The phone clicks, dead, and I wait. The phone clicks again and I hear the

reporter’svoice.“ThisisKellyFischer.”“Hi,it’sme.”“Mr.…Vanek?I’mafraidIdon’trecallthename.”“No,”Isay,lookingaround,“it’sme.”Ipause,waiting,butshedoesn’tspeak.

“Michael.”“Michael,” she says slowly, then abruptly her voice changes. “Michael

Shipman?Ididn’tknowtheyletyouusethephoneinthere.”“I’mnotinthereanymore.CanImeetyousomewhere?”“Congratulations on being released, that’s great. There’s no need to meet,

though.Thatstory…tookadifferentdirection.Thankyou,though.”“Thisisimportant.TherearethingsIdidn’ttellyoubefore.”“Idon’tdoubtit,butreally,wedon’tneedtomeet.Thankyou—”“Don’t hangup!” I shout, desperate to keepher on the line. “Listen, this is

veryimportant,butwecan’tdiscussitoverthephone—Idon’tknowifThey’relisteningornot.Youhavetobelieveme—”Thelinegoesdead.Ishakemyhead—I’vegottogetKellytobelieveme.Something’sgoingon

here,notjustwithPowellandtheFacelessMenbutwiththeRedLineKillerandtheChildrenoftheEarthandwhoknowswhatelse.They’reallconnected,andKellyistheonlyoneIcantalkto—theonlyonewho’sdonealltheresearchtofigureitout.Ineedherinformation.Ineedher.Ipulloutmychange:ninequartersleft.Ithinkaboutdialingheragain,butI

knowshewon’tanswer.IdialVanek’snumberinstead.Ring.“AmbroseVanek.”“It’sme.”“Bloody idiot,”hecurses,“whatonEarthpossessedyou to run?And tokill

someone!”“They’vealreadytoldyou?”“Ofcoursetheyalreadytoldme—Iwasthefirstonetheycalled,becausethey

knewI’dbethefirstpersonyoucalled.”“Sothey’relistening,”Isay.“I’llbecareful—”“Of course they’re not listening,” says Vanek, “there hasn’t been time for

anythinglikethat—”“Not for the normal police, no, but the Faceless Men have resources you

haven’tdreamedof.”“They’renotreal,Michael.Hasyourmedicinewornoffthisquickly?”Medicine—dammit, I need that too, I forgot.There’s toomuch to do, and I

feelmyselfslippingunder.“Theyarereal,Vanek,I’veseenthem—oneofthem,thejanitorIkilled.Iwas

fullydosedonClozarilandIsawhimanyway.Hehadapaper—Istillhaveit.”Iunzippedmyjanitorcoverallandpulledoutthecrumpledpaper.Ihelditclosetomybody,shieldedfromtherain.“It’sstillhere,Vanek—afulldossieronwhoIam, where I’ve lived, what I’ve done, everything.Why would a janitor havethis?”“Itcouldbeanotherhallucination,”saidVanek.“Yourmindrememberedwhat

it created last night and it’s reproducing it now to protect you from therealizationthatit’sfalse.”“Ihaveitrighthere,”Isay.“Youcanseeitforyourself.”“Ohno,”hesays,“Ican’tgetanywherenearyou,Michael—you’reawanted

man,andIcouldgotojailjustfortalkingtoyou.ThelastthingIwanttodoismeetyouinperson.”“There’s something going on,” I say. “I know you don’t believe me, but

there’sarealconspiracyandtheyaretryingto…Idon’tknowyet.OneoftheChildrenoftheEarthwasworkinginachemicalcompany—why?TheFBIsaidthecultiscompletelyself-sufficient,sohedidn’tneedthemoney,sowhywashethere?”“Whydoesitmatter?”“Because he also said they’re like Luddites, completely antitechnology, so

whyleavethefarmatall?Whygointoahugecityfulloftechnologyyouhatetogetajobyoudon’tneed?Ithastomeansomething.”“Theculthatestechnology?”“That’swhatAgentLeonardsaid.”“Asmuchasyoudo?”“Idon’t—”Ifreeze,catchinghismeaning.“It’snotlikethat.It’scompletely

different.”“Youdon’tknowthat,”hesays.“Dr.Littletoldmeaboutthemanwhodiedat

ChemCom—AgentLeonard saidhehad the samesuddenheadacheattack thatyouhave.Maybetheyavoidtechnologybecauseithurtsthem,thesamewayithurtsyou.”“Becausethere’ssomethinginmyhead.”“Youneedtofindthem.”“I’mnotgoingtofindthem,”Isnarl.“They’reevil—theyhavesomekindof

Plan, some horrible thing they’re doing, and I’ve got to stop them. Maybethat’s…maybethat’swhattheRedLineKillerisdoingtoo.HeknowsaboutthePlanandhe’stryingtostopthem.”“Areyousympathizingwiththemurderernow?Becausethisconversationis

alreadyaboutasdangerousasitcanpossiblybe.Doctor-patientconfidentialityiscompletelyoutthewindownow.”

“Thentellthepolice,”Isay,“butIneedmedicinefirst.”Hegrowls,scoffing.“I’mserious,”Itellhim.“Ican’tfightthemwithmybrainscrewedup.Ineed

tostaylucid,andyou’retheonlyoneIknowwhocanhelpme.”“I’mnotgoingtobuyyoudrugs.”“Justaprescription!JustapieceofpaperwithyourofficeandyournamesoI

cangosomewhereandbuythemmyself.”“Icouldgetarrested,Michael.Icouldlosemylicenseandgotojail.”Myvoiceisdesperateandragged.“Youhavetohelpme.”“I’vehelpedyoutoomuchalready,Michael.I…”Hestops.“Youneedtogo

back.”“I’mnevergoingback.”“Nottothehospital,”hewhispers,hisvoicegrowingsoftandurgent,“butto

wherever you were before that. Maybe something there will trigger yourmemory,andyou’llrememberthetimeyoulost.”“Willthathelp?”“I’mgoingtotellthepolicethatyoucontactedme,”hesays,“becauseIdon’t

want to be an accessory to murder or drug trafficking, but I won’t tell themwhereyou’regoing.That’sall Icangiveyou.Don’tcallmeagain.”Hehangsup.Iswallow,nodding,andputthephonebackonthehook.GobacktowhereI

was? Idon’tknowwhere Iwas—all I remember is anemptycity, and Idon’teven knowwhat thatmeans. An empty city and a deep, black pit. How do Iknowifthey’reevenreal?I need Kelly Fischer.Maybe if I… I look at the paper inmy hands, then

carefully tuck it back intomy coverall.Maybe if I show her the paper she’llbelieveme. It proves someone’s afterme—even if shewon’tbelieve anythingelse,thepaperwillshowherthat.Thenwithalltheinformationshe’scollected,maybesomesmallshredofitcanleadmetothenextstep.Ihavetotry.ButVanekwasrightaboutmymedicinewearingoff—ithasn’thappenedyet,

but itwill, andwhen it doesmybrainwill crumbleback intonothingand thehallucinationswillreturnandI’llbeauselesswreckagain.Ican’trisklosingmylucidity. I don’t dare go to a pharmacy or a hospital; I need to find drugs

somewhere else. On the street, I guess. Dr. Little said that Seroquel was arecreationaldrug,soIknowit’soutthere.Istartwalking.

SEVENTEEN

IDON’TKNOWWHEREIAM.Iwalktothenearestcornerandlookatthestreetsigns,butIdon’trecognizeeitherofthenames.Ijogtothenextstreet,muchbiggerthanthelast,butthere’sstillnotanameIrecognize.Iturnslowly,examiningtheskyline,tryingtofindafixformylocation—where’snorth?—butIfindnothing.ThemorningislightenoughthatIknowthesunhasrisen,butit’stooovercasttoactuallyseeit;insteadofskyandsunbeamsIseeonlymistandclouds, infused frombehindwitha soft,directionless light. Iwatch the traffic,nearly even in both directions; I can’t even guess a direction bywatching theflow.Ipickadirectionatrandomandstartwalking.Ifalleasilybackintothepatternsofhomelessness,alwayswatchingforcops

anddogsandanyscrapoffoodormoney.Ipassatrainstopandkeepmyeyesdown,myfaceobscuredfromthecameras.Myhairisthickandwet,plasteredtomyskullwithgreaseandoldrain.Ipassamaninasuit,hurryingpastmetothetrainstation,andbeforeI’mawareofitIaskhimforchange.Thewordsleavemymouth like a reflex.He ignoresme, just asnaturally, andwepass andaregone.Ikeepwalking.ItrytopiecetogetherthelittleIknowoftheFacelessMen—solittlebecauseI

don’t know howmuch of it I know for sure, and howmuch is the lingeringdelusionsofabrokenmind.Theyhavechasedmeforever,Ithink,butDr.Littlesaysmyschizophreniaisonlyeightmonthsold.BeforethatIhaddepressionandanxiety,whichtheKlonopinwasintendedtohelp.IfI’dtakenitthen,wouldtheschizophrenia have developed anyway? If I don’t treat the schizophrenia now,willsomethingworsecometomorrow?TheFacelessMen—try toremember theFacelessMen.Howlonghave they

beenwatchingme?More than a year, I’m sure of it. Theman from the FBI,

AgentLeonard, said thegovernmenthadbeenkeeping tabsonme since earlyadolescence. Are they connected to the FacelessMen? Could the hospital beunderTheircontrolwithoutthegovernment’shelp?Butno,Idon’tknowthatforsure: I don’t know if Powell was under Their control or not. That was theparanoiatalking.Letmelookatthefacts.One:Nick,thenightjanitor,wasaFacelessMan.Iconfirmedthisbysightand

bytouch,whilefirmlyundertheinfluenceofantipsychoticmedicine.Hehadapaperwithmyinformation,andIstillhaveit,anditstillsaystodaywhatitsaidlastnight.Myhallucinationsarerarelyeverthatconsistent.Two: Before the janitor, I saw more Faceless Men, watching me from a

distance, thoughnooneelseeverseemedtoseeThem.Either thehospitalwaspartoftheconspiracyandhelpingtocoveritup,orIwastheonlyonewhosawThem.Iwasstillhallucinatingbackthen;theyprobablyweren’tevenreal.I stop walking, gripped with a sudden realization. The hospital found the

janitorandtoldVanek,buttheydidn’tsayanythingabouthisface.Theycouldbehidingit,true,butwhatiftheyjustdidn’tseeit?WhatifIseeFacelessMennotbecauseI’mcrazy,butbecausesomehowIcanseeThemastheyreallyare?Somehow everyone else sees normal, everyday people, and I see their truenature.But no—that’s the schizophrenic narcissism again, telling me I’m different

andbetterandmore important thaneveryoneelse. Itmakesmore sense to sayI’mhallucinatingthantosayIhavesomekindofsuperhumanawareness.Andyet…Ihavetheproof.Ihavethejanitor’spaper.Igetitoutagain,desperatetoseeit,totouchit,toknowthatI’mnotcrazy.It’sstillthere;it’sstillmydossier.Itouchitreverentlyandtuckitbackinside.There’sonemorefactIhaven’tconsidered:thenursewasunconscious.Ifthe

Facelessjanitorwascomingforme,andifthehospitalwasinonit,whywasthenurse unconscious? And where was the guard? It makes more sense that thejanitorwas acting alone, observingme formonths and then finally, when thetimecame,incapacitatingthenearbywitnessestohidehisactions.Butwhatwashegoing todo? I searchedhis clothesandhis equipment—hedidn’thaveanydrugsorsurgicaltoolsoranythingelsesuspicious.Onlythepaperandthegatecode.Washegoingtotalktome?

Washegoingtotakeme?I hear a siren in the distance, short and clipped.A cop just pulled someone

over.Theskyisbrighternow,andIrealizeIneedtogetoffthestreet.Ifthecopsare looking forme I should keep to the back roads and out of sight. I’m tooconspicuous in this coverall. I turn down the next alley, hiding in the narrowspacebetweentwofatbrickbuildings.Ineednewclothes.Drugsandclothesandmoney.Icouldgohome,Iguess;

there’reclothesthere,andtheoldKlonopinInevertook,butit’stoorisky.Thepolicearesure tobewatching it.Evenif they’renot,myfatherwouldsellmeoutinaheartbeat.Ican’tgohome.Butthenwhere?Where can you even buy drugs on the street?High schools, probably, but I

couldn’tget in tooneof those looking like this.Maybe theparking lotbehindone? I see a bank with a large electric sign. Eight in the morning; school’salreadystarted.Isthesignwatchingme?Ishakemyheadandkeepwalking.It feels like Iwalk forhoursbefore I findaschool. It’sabrownbrickhigh-

rise,set inamonga forestofsmallerbuildings; theblockacross thestreet isafenced-in field coveredwithdyingyellowgrass.Theparking lot is small, andtheswarmofparkedcarsspillsouttofillthecurbsineverydirection.Idon’tseeanycops,butIassumethey’recloseby;myownhighschoolwasalwaysfilledwiththem,andthisone’sjustasghetto.I’veseendrugs,anddrugdeals,butI’venever bought themmyself before. I don’t knowwhat to do. Iwalk down thestreet slowly, taking in every detail. There are people here and there in theshadows, some in the cars and some on the front steps of the neighboringhouses;somearekids,someareadults.I’mtooscaredtoapproachthem.WhatwillIevenpaywith?MaybeIcanjustfindouttheprice,andcomebacklater.WhatifIgetarrested,orshot?WhatamIdoinghere?Iwalkaroundtheblock, trudgingslowly,runningthroughmyapproachesin

mymind.DoIwanttolookconfident,orwillthatmakemelooktooaggressive?IfItrytostayquietandnonthreatening,willIcomeoffastooweak?Itdoesn’tmatter if they try to robme—I don’t have anything to steal. I should leave. Icircle theblockagain, slowly,watching thepeopleas Ipassbutnevermakingeye contact. The dealers I saw in high school were usually older, sometimesmuch older—thirties or forties. Old pros who’ve been doing this for years. I

walkpastwithouttalkingtoanyone.Ifeeltheanxietyriseinmychest,flutteringlikeatrapped,angrybird.Ican’tdothis.I’mhungry;Ihaven’teatenbreakfast.IwalkuntilIfindadinerandcarefully

countoutmychange.“WhatcanIgetfor$2.25?”“Cupofsoup.”“Thanks.”ThewaitressbringsmeclamchowderandIsipitslowly,tryingnot

toburnmytongue.Thereareahandfulofotherpatronsinthediner,butnoneofthemlooklikecopsordrugdealers.AreanyofthemFacelessMen?Iftheycanhidefromothers,can theyhidefromme?CouldanyoneIseebeoneof them,wearingafacelikeaninsidiousmask?I’dhavenowayofknowing.Ileavethedinerandwalkbacktotheschool,alwaysmoving,alwayswatching.There’sanoldmaninawindow;there’salittlegirlonthesteps.Who’swatchingme?Theschoolissurroundedbystudents,talkingandeatingandsmokingthrough

theeleveno’clock lunchbreak.Halfof themare talkingor texting, and I turndownasidestreet,awayfromtheirphones.Thecity is alivewithenergy, sharp fieldsof electromagneticscrossingback

andforth throughtheair—TVs,radios,cellphones,wirelessmodems,buzzingandhummingandpricklingattheedgesofmyconsciousness.Theyareformlesspain. They are barbed tentacles of thought. They are voices from beyond theworld.Itisnearlythreeo’clockwhenIreturntotheschool,bonetiredandsweating

fromexertionandheat.Thecloudshaveclearedand thesun ishotandbright.Schoolhasn’tletoutyet.Iwalkinaslowcircuitaroundtheedgeoftheschool.“Youlookingforsomething?”Istop;it’snotanoldmanlikeI’dhoped,butayoungkid,maybefifteenatthe

most.Irecognizehimfrommywalksthismorning,stillinthesamecar.I look back, not sure what to say. I want to buy drugs is too simple, too

forward.Hecouldbeanarc,ortherecouldbeonenearby.Ishrug.“Yeah.”“Youhomeless?”“Yeah.”“You can’twalk around a high school like this,man, people think you’re a

perv.Yougotmoney?”

Ihesitate.He’llturnmeawayifIsayno.Inod.“Yeah.”Hesmiles.“Thenwhatyouneed,myman,issomesoup.Iknowagreatsoup

kitchen,getyoufixedrightup,maybefindyouaplacetosleepandgetyououtofthosestank-bagclothes.Getin.”“I’mnotreallylookingforsoup—”“Getin,dammit.”Hisfaceishard.Inod,catchingontoolatetohispretense;

I’mmoretiredandhungrythanIthink.Iopenthebackdoorandsitdown.“Geez, Brody, this guy smells like a urinal!” There’s a young man in the

backseat next to me. “What’d you go bringing him in here for?” I don’trememberseeinghimbefore—isheactuallythere?Havethedrugswornoffthatmuch?Heleanscloserandsniffs.“Yousleepoutsidelastnight?”I don’t dare answer him; the other kid will throwme out if he thinks I’m

crazy.The driver, Brody, starts his car and pulls away from the curb. “You don’t

wantnosoup,huh?YouthinkIcareifyouwantanydamnsoup?WhenIsaygetinthecaryougetinthecar.”“I’minthecarnow.”“Whatyou lookingfor?”asks theman in thebackseat. I lookatBrody,still

tooscaredtoanswertheothermanoutloud.“Answerhim,trashman—whatareyoulookingfor?”Isighsoftly,relievedtohavethemanconfirmedbyathirdparty.Iswallow.“I

needneuroleptics,”Isaycarefully.“Clozarilworksbest,butSeroquelcandoinapinch—”“YouwantsomeSuzyQ?”asksBrody.“Wecando that.Howmuch?”He’s

drivingslowly,aimlessly,cruisingthestreetswhilewemakeourdeal.Ifrownandswallowagain,nervousandscared.“Howmuchdoesitcost?”“That’snothow thisworks,” says thekid in thebackseat. “You tell ushow

muchyouwanttopay,andwetellyouhowmuchthat’llgetyou.”“I…”Istop.“CanIgeta…sample,first?”Brodylaughs.“Youhearthat,Jimmy?Hewantsafreesample.”Brody’svoiceishard.“Thisain’tnoicecreamshop,junkie.Youaddictedto

thisstuff?”“Ineeditforamedicalcondition.”

“He’saddicted,”Jimmylaughs.“Howmuchdoyouwant?”Brodyasksagain.Ihavenothing—nomoney,noteventhe$2.25Ispentonlunch.Mypockets

arecompletelyempty,exceptforthepaperand——andasmallringofkeys.Thejanitor’s.Itouchmypocket,feelingthekeysthroughthefabric.“Ineedtomakekindof

anunorthodoxdealwithyouguys,”Isay.“Idon’thaveanymoney.”JimmyandBrodycurse inunison.Brodypullsoverand swearsagain. “Get

out.”“Listentome—”“No,” shouts Brody, “you listen to me! You don’t come into our place of

businessandwasteourtime,andIdon’tcarewhatkindofdealyou’retryingtomakebecauseifitdoesn’tinvolvemoneyIamnotinterested,endofstory.Nowgetoutofthiscarwhilethat’sstilltheworstthingthat’sgoingtohappentoyou.”“Iworkinahospital,”Isaydesperately.“Seethislogoonmycoverall?Itsays

PowellPsychiatric,I’ma janitor there.Halfof thedrugsyousell, that’swheretheycomefrom.”“Thenwhyareyoubuyingthemfromus?”“BecauseIlostmyjob,andIcan’tgetbackin,butIcangetyouinandyou

cantakeallthedrugsyouwant.”Thecarissilent.Brodyshakeshishead.“Theseplaceschangethepasscodeseverytimethey

firesomeone.”“Ihavemetalkeys,” I sayquickly.“Theychange thepasscodesbutnot the

locks.”Silence.“Itcouldwork,”saysJimmy.“It’sdumbashell,”saysBrody.“Look,” I say, “if you get me a change of clothes I’ll even throw in the

uniform.Clean itupandyoucanwalkall throughthehallswithoutbattinganeyelash.Theyknowmyfacebuttheydon’tknowyours.”Brodystaresatme,eyesnarrow.“Showmethekey.”Itrytolookfirm.“Drugsfirst.”

SuddenlyJimmyisholdingagun.“Youwanttodobusiness,youfollowourrules.”Inod,myeyesnever leaving thegun, and slowlypull out the ringofkeys.

“They’re all right here: exterior doors, service hallways, medical cabinets,everything.” Idon’tactuallyknowwhatanyof thekeysdo,but I try tosoundconvincing.“Nowwe’retalking,”saysJimmy.HelooksatBrody.“Thiscouldwork.”Atrainwhistlesnearby,shrillandpiercing.Brodystartsdriving.“Takeofftheuniform.”“Andyou’llgivemetheSeroquel?”“Hesaidtakeofftheuniform,”Jimmysnarls,gesturingwiththegun.“Wehadadeal.”“Moneyisadeal,”saysBrody.“Allyouhaveisahandfulofkeys.Howdowe

knowtheyevenwork?”“WhywouldIlietoamanwithagun?”“Becauseyou’reajunkie,”saysJimmy,“andjunkiesarestupid.”The trainwhistlesagain. I lookat thegun, thenatJimmy’sface.We’re ina

residentialneighborhoodnow,thehousesgrimandcracked.Ineedthedrugs—Ican’t leaveherewithout them.I lickmyteeth,feelingmychestgrowcoldandhollow.Iholdupthekeys.AndtossthemstraightintoJimmy’seyes.“Whatthe—”Heflinchesandraiseshishandstocoverhisface,andassoonasthegunisn’t

pointedatmeI lungeforward,grabbinghiswristwithonehandandpoundinghiminthefacewiththeother.“Holy—!”Brody shouts.The car swerveswildly as he first looks back and

thenovercorrectstoregaincontrol.“Shoothim,youidiot!”Jimmy tries to point the gun at me but I’m too strong—strong enough to

attack awhole room full of doctors; strong enough to accidentally kill amanwitha chair.He firesonepanicked shot into the roof, and Ipunchhimagain,feeling the crunch as his nose breaks and sprays us bothwith blood. The carlurchesawkwardlytoastopasBrodyslamsonthebrakesandstumblesoutofthecar,sprintingforthenearestsidestreet.JimmyandIloseourbalance,nearly

falling into the footwell, and Iwrench the gun from his hand as he clutchesfeeblyathisface.Ihavethegun.Thecarismovingslowlyagain,driftingdiagonallytowardthe

sideoftheroad.Thetrainwhistlesloudlyagain,deafeningandpainful.IthrustthegunintoJimmy’sface.“GivemetheSeroquel.”“Areyoucrazy,man?”“I didn’twant to do this,” I say, “but there are bigger things I have to deal

with.Iamhelpingyou,butIneedSeroqueltodoit.”“We’regoingtokillyou,youknow.MeandBrodyandeveryoneelse—we’re

goingtohuntyoudownandkillyou.”“Brody ran away,” I say. “You’re alone.”The trainwhistles again, a jagged

bladeofsound,andIgrimaceandcovermyears.“Whyisthattrainsoloud?”“Whattrain?”Itwhistlesagain.“Thattrain!”“Whatareyoutalkingabout,man?”I look up: there is no train. We’re in a tiny residential neighborhood, old

housesandoldcars,withoutarailroadformiles. I lookbackatJimmyandhehasnoface,andIscreamalongwiththeblareofthetrain.“We’regoing tokillyou,”says theFacelessMan.“Allofus.You’readead

manandyoudon’tevenknowit—”Thegungoesoff.Jimmy gasps, falling back against the door, a puckered hole in his chest

spilling deep red blood.He grits his teeth andwheezes, eyes screwed shut inpain,hisentirefaceaclenched,rigidmask.Hisentire…face.Hehasaface.Ifumblethecardooropenandrun.

EIGHTEEN

AWOMANISSCREAMING. I look down and see the gun inmy hand,black and inert. Can anyone else see it?Brody’s car is stillmoving, creepingslowly toward the side of the street until it bumps a car with a soft metalliccrunch. Awoman screams again, not in terror or anger but simply a scream.Inarticulate.Ilookatthegunagain.Ishotaman—hehadnoface,andIshothim,andthen

hisfacewasback,justlikethat.Wasitreal?Ishehidinghistruenature,ordidIkillaninnocentman?IrunasfastasIcan,armsandlegspumpinglikeacartoon.Mychestiscold

in thewind.The gun is inmy right hand, and I don’t knowwhere to putmyfinger.Will it go off?How should I hold it? I reach upwithmy other hand,slowly,awkwardly,andflipthegundownsoI’mholdingthebarrel.Iwrapmyfingers around the outside of the trigger guard. Everyone can see it, up anddown,upanddown,wavinglikeaflagasIrun.Ineedtohideit.Ineedtorun.Ineedtogetholdofmyself.I’m in a wide street, with short, dirty houses stretching endlessly in every

direction. Twomen on a porch stare atme as I go by.A little girl on a bikepedals fearfullyawayaround thecorner. Idrop to thecurb in theshadowofagarbagecan,crouchinginthegutter.WhatdoIdo?Ishouldthrowthegunaway,tipitintothiscanandbegone…butthosemen,thatgirl,whoknowshowmanypeoplepeekingthroughtheirwindows—theyallsawme.They’llknowwhereIdropped it, andwhen they tell thepolice they’ll find it and they’ll catchme. Ican’tleaveithere.AndwhatifBrodycomeslookingforme?OrmoreFacelessMen?I shake my head, struggling to breathe evenly. Was Jimmy really one of

Them?Isawhim,not twofeetaway,asfacelessas themanfromthehospital.Butinthehospital,thedrugswerestillworking—nowit’sbeentoolong,andIdon’t know if the hallucinations are coming back or not. There was a trainwhistlethatonlyIcouldhear:isthatbecauseitwasfake,orbecausehewastooterrifiedtonoticeit?Andwhydidhisfacecomebackwhenthejanitor’sdidn’t?Focus. Whatever Jimmy was, he’s not coming after me now. Brody’s the

immediate threat, and the cops.They’ll come forme—Ican’t throwawaymyonly defense. I look at the gun, hefting it, then glance around at theneighborhood.ThemenIsawearlieraregone,probablyhidinginside,probablycallingthepolice.Ilookdownatmyself,filthywithdirtanddust,myjumpsuitcrustedwithdriedrainwater.Irunmyfingersthroughmyhair,greasyandwild.Ican’tstayoutherelikethis.Ihavetofindclothes,andIhavetohidethegun.The gun is small enough to fit inmy pocket, but I don’t know if I trust it.

Whatifitgoesoff?Ialreadyfiredit,sothatshouldmeanthesafety’soff,right?UnlessIbumpeditwhileIwasshiftingitaroundinmyhands.IfindwhatIthinkisasafetyswitch,butit’snotlabeled.Iflickit,thenflickitagain,offandon—oronandoff.Backandforth.Ipickoneandleaveitthere,placingthegungingerlyinmypocket.Iglancearoundagain.Someone’swatchingmethroughagapinthedrapesof

thenearesthouse;Irecoilnotfromtheperson,butfromtheTVglaringbrightlybehindher.Isitwatchingme?Isuppressashiver,duckmyhead,andrun.The light is fading, and I hear a distant siren—coming forme?Coming for

Jimmy?Ireachamajorstreet,waitanxiouslyforagapinthetraffic,thendartacross into a clusterof commercialbuildingsbeyond.Amechanic’sgarage.Ahair salonwithwindow ads in a language I don’t recognize. A pawn shop; abutchershop;asexshop.Thebuildingsgrowtallerasthelightfades,andIrunpast thelongwallofastoragecenter.Atthefarendisasmallofficebuilding,justtwostorieshigh,thewindowsdark.Iduckbehinditandfindasmallparkinglotsandwichedbetweentheofficesandthebackofanotherbuilding,reallymoreof an alley, the narrow space almost completely filled by three dentedDumpsters. Islipbetween twoof themand leanagainst thewall,coveringmynoseagainstthesmell.WhenJimmygotshothis facereappeared,but the janitor’s lastnightdidn’t.

Does that mean Jimmy wasn’t really a Faceless Man, or that the janitor,somehow,didn’tactuallydie?DidIcheckhisbreathing,orwastheelectricbuzzaroundhisfacetoostrong?DidIcheckhispulse?Idon’tremember.Ifthejanitordidn’tdie,thepolicemightnotbelookingforme—thehospital

willhavetoldthemtokeepaneyeoutforme,butthatdoesn’tmeanthere’sanactivesearch.AndBrodyalmostcertainlydidn’tcall911—thecarandJimmy’sbodyareprobablybothfilledwithdrugs—Drugs.Ididn’tgettheSeroquel.Thatwasthewholepointoffindingdealers

inthefirstplace,butIgotsoscaredIranaway.Ineedtofindmoresomewhere,especiallyifthehallucinationsarealreadycomingback.SoImightbeokay,at leastfornow.Istill looklikeacriminal, though,and

this jumpsuit onlymakesmeeasier to identify, especially if thepeopleon thestreet called in a report about a dangerous, gun-waving lunatic. I need newclothes. I have my patient pajamas under the jumpsuit, but that’s even morerecognizable.WhereamIgoing,anyway?What’smyplan?Itakeadeepbreathand try to calmmyself down. I’m smarter than this—I’m just spooked by theshooting.Calmdown.Ineedclothes,andIneedmedicine,andIcangetbothathome.IfDadhasn’t

thrownitawayIhavesomeKlonopininmyroom—wholebottlesofit,maybehundredsofpills that Ipickedupandnever took.They’renotasstrongas theSeroquel,butthey’llhelp.IfIcanfindatrainstationIcanlookatamap—justenoughtoseewhereIam,andwhereIneedtogo.Home,andthen…towhereverIwasbefore.LikeVaneksaid.Somethingshifts in thealleyandI leap tomyfeet; it sounds likegarbage, I

think,abagofitknockedoverandspilledacrosstheground.Ipulloutthegun.Awet,smackingsound,likeamouth.Chewing,maybe,ordrinking.Ipeerat theguninthenear-dark,fumblingwiththesafetyswitch.Whichis

onandwhichisoff?Thegarbageshiftsagain,anerraticrhythmofscrapesandthudsandthesoundoffallenbottlesskitteringandclinkingacrosstheasphalt.Alowscreechofmetal.Awet,heavyslap.IgripthepistoltightlyandsteptotheedgeoftheDumpsters.There’snolightinthealley,justthedistantblue-whiteglowfromastreetlight

beyondthewall.

Moresounds,closerthistime,andIstepoutfromtheDumpstersandturntofacethem.Asodacanfallsfromapileofgarbagebags,half-crushed,andthenalow, wet shape appears behind it—a giant maggot, skin rippling and slick,inching towardme through the pile of trash.My breath catches and I staggerbackthreesteps,myhandstremblingonthegun.Istruggletobreathe.“Whatdoyouwant?”Itsnortsandwhiffles,nosingatgarbagewithitsringed,toothymouth.Myhandsareshaking.“Whatdoyouwant?”Itsbodycontracts,asinglethickmuscleunderathinwhitemembrane,andit

pullsitselfcloser.Thegunisrighthere,rightinmyhand,alreadypointedatthemonster justsevenfeetaway.All Ihave todo ismovemyfinger.Will thatbeenough?Isthesafetyreallyoff?Isitreallyamonster?IshotJimmy,notbecausehewasadrugdealer,notbecausehewantedtokill

me,andnotbecauseIhadtodefendmyself.Hecouldbarelymove.IshothimbecauseI thoughthewasoneof themonsters inmyhead,andthenhewasn’t,butitwastoolate.CanIdothesamethingagain?Themaggotshufflescloser,swellingandlengthening,itsmouthopeningandclosing,tastingtheair.“Saysomething.”Itmightbeabum,orahomelessmotherlookingforfood.It

mightbealostchild,orasickman,oradog.Myeyesfeelwet.“Tellmewhoyouare.”Five feet away. I stumble backward, the gun still trained on the nightmare

beforeme. I scream in frustration—Idon’t knowwhat to do! I can’t trustmyownhead!IknowtheFacelessMenarereal,butIknowatleastsomeofthemarefake;Ihavetofightback,butIhavenowayofknowingifthevisionsI’mfightingarereal.Iroaragain,grittingmyteeth.“Saysomething!”I can’t take the chance. Iwheel around, drop the gun in theDumpster, and

sprintoutofthealley.IglancebackwhenIreachthestreet,watchingthemaggotshuffle slowly towardme.Ahornblares from the intersection, ablurofhead-andtaillights,andIturnandrun.IreachabiggerstreetandIslowtoajog,tryingnottolooklikeI’mrunning

from something.The street here is crowded, full of shops and restaurants and

people.“Whydidyoupickthisdirection?”Iswallowandkeepjogging.“Brody’scarisbackthatway.”“Youthinkthere’satrainstationthisway?”“Ihopethereis.Eventuallythere’sgottobe,ifIgofarenough.”She nods. “A train station will have maps, but it’ll also have security

cameras.”I stop and closemyeyes, panting. “I don’t need the ride, I need themap. I

needtoknowwhereIam.”“Keepgoing,”shesays,urgingmeforward.“It’snotsafetostopyet.”“Keepgoingwhere?”“Tomyplace—Icanhideyouthere.”“Lucy.”Iturntofaceher,andshe’sgone.Iclosemyeyesagain,strainingat

mymindasifitwereamuscleIcouldflex.Lucyisn’treal.Stophearingher.Atrainstationwillhaveamapandaname,andI’llgetabetterfixonwhereI

am.Istartjoggingagain,andthenIhearasirenandIdiveagainstthewall.Nothingherebutshopsandlights—Ican’tgoin.Ineedanalley.Ilookforthe

policecar,seenothing,andtakeoffatarunagain.LucyseesthegapinthewalljustasIdo.“Inthere!”I follow her, sprinting the last few seconds, barely registering the surprised

facesofthepeopleonthestreetaswerunpastthem.Wediveintoabig,blackopening and find it tobe thedrivewayof aprivategarage, probably anofficebuilding;thepathextendsupashortramp,maybetenfeetdeep,andstopsatawidemetaldoor.Ipressupintothecorner,mybacktothebricks,andtakeafewdeepbreaths.Lucycrouchesnexttome,scanningthestreetwithdarkeyes.“Youthinkthey’relookingforus?”Ishakemyhead.“Forme,yes.You’renotreal.”

NINETEEN

“OFCOURSEI’MREAL,”saysLucy.Sheglancesupatmeandraisesaneyebrow.“I’marealhallucination.”“That’sthesamethingasnotbeingreal.”“You’vegotbiggerproblemstodealwithrightnow,Michael.”Sheturnsback

tothestreet,watchingintently.“Howareyougoingtogethome?”“HowdoyouknowI’mgoinghome?”“Iliveinyourhead,Michael.Ifyouthinkit,Iknowit.”“Thenwhyareyouaskingmeanything?Just…readmymind.”“I’mtryingtogetyoutothink,Michael—I’mtryingtohelp,andthat’spretty

muchallIcando.It’seasiertosortthroughaproblemwhenyouhavesomeonetotalkto,sohereIam:talktome.”“I’mtryingtoovercomemydelusions,Lucy,notfeedthem.”“You’retryingtosurvive,”sheinsists.“Yourdelusionsaren’tgoingtomatter

if you get arrested formurder.Get home, get the drugs, and thenwe can talkaboutwhatisandisn’treal.”Ipause,watching the street, then slidedownagainst thewall and sit on the

pavement.It’scoolanddry,thoughtheairaroundusisstillhot.“Idon’tknowhowtogethome.Givemetimetothink.”“You’vebeenrunningfortoolong,”shesays,“you’restressedout.Justtakea

minutetobreathe;I’llkeepwatch.”Iclosemyeyesandcranemyneckback,stretchingit.ThankgoodnessLucy’s

heretowatch—Isnapmyeyesopenandlookbackatthestreet.“You’renotreallyhere,Lucy,

howareyougoingtowatchthestreet?”She pauses, saying nothing, then shakes her head. “I don’t know.

Subconscious cues?Drawing attention to sights and sounds you sense in yourperipherywithoutimmediatelyflaggingthemasdangerous?”Ifrown.“Isthatpossible?”“Itoldyou,Idon’tknow.”“Thenletmekeepwatch.Youthink.”“IthoughtIwasn’treal.”“Allmythoughtsareyourthoughts—anythingIcanthink,youcanthink.And

probablybetter,sinceyou’reapparentlythefabricationofanidealizedwoman.”She smiles. “That’s sweet of you, Michael.” She stands. “We need a way

home.…”“Weneedtoknowwherewearefirst.”“Sowherearewe?”I shakemy head, stillwatching the street. “I don’t know.”Cars and people

passthemouthofthegarageinaconstantstream,occasionallyglancinginatus,butnoonestopsorpoints.It’sanormalnight,justacrazyguytalkingtohimselfinthecity.Nothingtoseehere.“Idon’tthinkwe’redowntown,butthat’sallI’vegot.”“We’re definitely not downtown,” saysLucy, “I live there. The only time I

evercomeoutthisfaristovisit…you.”Shegrabsmyshoulder,andthoughIcan’tfeelitI’mawareofit,theknowledgeofhertouchcompletelyreplacingtheevidence against it. “I’ve passed this street before, onmyway to visit you! Iknowthisneighborhood!”“Youcan’tknowitunlessIknowit.”“That’swhat I’m saying,” she says. “You’vebeenhere before, at least long

enough to figure out that this is amajor road into the heart of the city; yoursubconsciousmindknowswherethisstreetgoes,andnowIknowit.”“Great,”Isay,“sowhichwaydowegofromhere?”Shewalksto theedgeof thegarage, looksaround, thengestures impatiently

formetojoinher.“Ican’tactuallylookaroundwithoutyou,youknow.”Istandandjoinher,glancingfurtivelyupanddownthestreet.Shesmilesand

patsmeontheshoulder;herfingersaresoftandcool.“Thisway.”Sheheadsoutontothesidewalk,goingbackthewaywecame.“That’sgettingcloserto…”Istop,notwantingtosaytheplacewhereIshota

guyinacrowdedstreet.Ilowermyvoice.“Youknow.”“We’re only backtracking a couple of blocks,” she says, “and thenwe’ll be

pullingawayagain.”“You’resure?”“OfcourseIam,andthatmeansyouaretoo.Comeon.”I adjustmy dirty jumpsuit, feeling self-conscious, but I step into the crowd

and start walking. Lucy picks up her speed, weaving effortlessly through thepressofpeople,andIhurrytocatchup.Afterseveralblocksthecrowdthinsasweleavetheentertainmentdistrictbehind;restaurantsandspecialtyshopsgiveway to pawn shops and locksmiths and liquor stores.As the pedestrian trafficdwindles, the car traffic picks up, and soon the road becomes a majorthoroughfare. I jog from shadow to shadow,my eyes jumping back and forthbetweenthebuildingsandthecarsandthelampposts,streetlightsbuzzingwithangry electrons. We come to a major intersection, traffic lights blazing likelidlesseyes,andLucyrunsaheadtothecorner.“Wecrosshere,andgoright.”Ihangback,intheshadowofadarkbuilding.“Comeon,Michael,let’sgo.”Ishakemyhead.“Thetrafficlightsarewatching.”“What?”Shesighs.“Nothingiswatchingyou,Michael,wakeup.Snapoutof

it.”“Ican’tjustsnapoutofit,Lucy—therearetrafficcamerasoverthelights.I’ll

beonthem.Theywillbewatching.”“Thepolicearen’twatchingforyouonthetrafficcameras.”“Notthepolice.Lucy,the…”We’retheonlypeopleonfoot,butIhesitateto

sayitoutloud.Shecocksherhead,steppingclosertohear.“Thewhat?”“TheFacelessMen!” I grabher armandpull her into the shadowwithme.

“They’rewatchingme—that’swhatwe’rerunningawayfrom.”“Ithoughtwewererunningfromthepolice?”Mybrainfeelsthick,likesludge.“We’rerunningfromboth…listen,Lucy,I

don’tknowwhyIdidn’t thinkabout itbefore,butallof thesetraffic lightsarejustonemoreopportunityforThemtoseeme.Idon’tknowhowmanywe’ve

alreadypassed,but—”“Youdidn’tthinkaboutitbecauseitisadelusion,”shesays,enunciatingthe

finalwordwithgrippingfinality.“Yourdrugsarewearingoff—that’swhyI’mhere, right? It’sgettingworse,andallofyouroldsymptomsarecomingback,but you have to trustme: none of it is real.” She tries to pullme toward thestreet,butIholdherback.“No,”Isay,“theFacelessMenarereal.Isawoneinthehospital,underfull

effectofthedrugs,anditwasreal.”“YouthoughtJimmywasrealtoo,andlookwhathappenedtohim.”“Iknow!” I shout, thenpauseand try tocalmmyself.Everyheadlight from

the street feels like a searching eye, and I pull back farther into the shadows.“Listen,youhavetotrustme.YousaythatanythingIknow,youknow,soyouhavetoknowthis.”“You are hallucinating,” she says slowly. “You are trying to explain your

realitytoahallucination.Doyouseehowcrazythatsounds?Howcanyoueventrustyourself?Jimmyistheproofthat—”“Jimmyprovesnothing,”Isayharshly.“Look,Lucy,Iknowyou’renotreal—

youwere theperfectgirlfriend,but Icreatedyou inmyhead,and Iknow thatnow. But that doesn’t mean every girlfriend is fake, right? One imaginarygirlfrienddoesnot invalidate theentireconceptofgirlfriends—theyexist, theyareeverywhere.”Iclenchmyfingers,tryingtokeepmybreathingsteady.“TheFacelessMenarethesameway—justbecauseJimmywasafakedoesn’tmeanthey’reallfake.IthoughthewasoneofThem,andIwaswrong,butthatdoesn’tmeanTheydon’texist.”Lucyrubsherforehead.“Iamyoursubconsciousmindtellingyouthatthey’re

notreal—”“YouaremysubconsciousfearstellingmethatI’mwrong,justliketheentire

worldhas trainedme to think I’mwrong formyentire life.But I’m right thistime,Lucy.You’vegottobelieveme.”“But—”“Ifyouloveme,”Isay,grippingherhands,“youwilltrustme.”Shestaresatme,grippingmeback—solidandreassuring,hereyesreflecting

tinypointsoflight.Shenods.

“Itrustyou.”“Thankyou.”“Andifyouloveme,you’llcrossthisstreet.”“What?”She pullsme out from the shadow, her grip stronger than I expected. “You

have to cross this street,” she says. “We’re about six blocks away from thebakery where you work—I met you there for lunch a few times, remember?Fromthereit’sonlyamileortwotoyourhouse.Butfirstyouhavetocrossthestreet.”Ipullback,intenselyafraid—irrationallyafraid—ofthecamerasonthetraffic

lights.Ofthetrafficlightsthemselves.Everyheadlight,everycar,everyfacelessdriver;inmymindthestreetisaragingtorrentofsteelpredators,howlingpastatbreakneckspeed,allsearchingforme,all readytoswerveandcrushmelikeahailofmeteors,caraftercaraftercarslammingintoamassivepilewithmeatthebottom.Imissastep,losingmybalance,andLucycatchesme,steadiesmewithherfirm,gentlehands.“Lookatme,Michael.”“Ican’tgooutthere.…”“Lookatme,”sherepeats.“Lookatme.Lookatmyeyes.”I lookup slowly, see the curveofher cheek, thedarkwaveofherhair, the

faintreflectionofhereyes.Istareintohereyes—eyesI’vestaredintosomanytimesbefore,eyesthatI’velovedsincebeforeIevensawthem.Istarttocry.“You’rejustadream,Lucy.”“Doyouloveme?”Isobagain.“Yes.”“Thenitdoesn’tmatter.Wearegoingtocrossthisstreet,andwearegoingto

befine,andwearegoingtobetogether.Nothingwillhappen.”“They’llseeme—”Isay, looking toward the traffic lights,butshe turnsmy

facebacktohers.“Lookatme,”shesayssoftly,“onlyatme.”Shestepsbackward,pullingme

withherhands,andIfollowslowly,focusingonhereyes.Weleavetheshadow;we approach the curb;wewait on the edge of the street.On the edges ofmyvisionIseethelightschange,andIstarttoshakeinfearatthesightofthem,my

chestseizingup,butLucypullsmyeyesbacktohersandwestepintothestreet.Leftfoot,rightfoot.Inchbyinch.CarsrushpastusandIpushthemoutofmymind,pushingouteverythingbutLucy’sdeepbrowneyes.Halfway.Threemorelanesofcars, linedupattheintersectionlikeaswarmofbright,

crystalline beetles. Their headlights watch us like eyes, anxious soldiers inrumblingformation.They’retoocloseandIstarttofalter,takingsmallsidestepsawaytowardtheperpendiculartraffic.Lucypullsmeback.“Lookatme,Michael.Don’tlookatanythingbutme.”Thegreenglareonthepavementturnsred,andinthecornerofmyeyeared

light turnsgreen, andnow the rumblingbeetlesbegin shriekingandblaring inanger.Itrytohurry,butmynervousnessslowsmedownevenfurther.Ipassthesecondlane,andthecarsroartolifebehindme,leapingpastmewithasnarl.IfeellikeIcan’tbreathe.“I’mrighthere,Michael.Staywithme.”Istepontothecurbandthedambreaksbehindme,athousandcarstumbling

past in a furious blur. I clutch Lucy’s arm and she walks beside me now,hurryingmeawayfromtheintersection,butacarbehindusturnsatthecornerandpullsupnexttous,drivingslowly.Police.Myheartbeatsharder,andIcanfeelsweatdrippingdownmyback.“Staycalm,”saysLucy.Awindowrollsdown.“Isthereaproblem,sir?”“Justkeepwalking,”Lucywhispers.“Tellthemyou’refine.”“I’mtooscared.”Sheturnstothecops.“I’mfine,thanks.Justoutforawalk.”Iglanceatherthroughthecornerofmyeye.“Youcan’ttalktopeople.”“Ijustdid.”“Didhehearyou?”“Heheardyou,”shesays,“nowbequiet,he’sstillwatchingus.”“Areyoualright,sir?Haveyoubeendrinking?”“They’re here because you’rewalking unsteadily,” says Lucy, “not because

theyrecognizeyou.Theydon’tknowwhoyouare.”“I’m just…” I swallow, keepingmy face forward. The back ofmymind is

screamingLookatthem–theyhavenofaces!ButIrefusetolook;Irefusetoletmyhallucinationstakeover.“I’mjustgoinghome.I’llbefine.”“Youlookalittleunsteady,”saystheofficer.“See?”saysLucy.“Haveyoubeendrinking?”heasksagain.“Areyouinpain?”“Hethinksyou’reondrugs,”saysLucy.Ilaughhollowly,stillshufflingforward.“Iwish.”Weturnatthenextcorner,andthepolicecarturnstofollowus.It’sasmaller

street, just two lanes, and another car approaches slowly on the far side. Thepolicemanleansfartheroutofhiswindow,tryingtogetabetterview.“Where’sthejumpsuitfrom?”“Theyknow,”Ihiss.“Justkeepgoing,”saysLucy,lettinggoofmyarm.“I’lltakecareofthem.”“Let’stakealookatyou,sir,”saysthepoliceman,andtheypullforwardafew

feet, preparing to stop and headme off. Lucymoves away suddenly, runningbehind themand into thestreet. I lungea fewstepsafterher, thenscreamas Irealizewhatshe’sdoing.She’schargingstraightattheoncomingcar.Iwavemy handswildly, diving off the curb to chase her. “Lucy, no!” The

officerdrivingthepolicecarseesmerun,seesLucyjustastheoncomingdriverdoes; the second driver swerves and the policeman loses control for a splitsecond—justlongenoughtoswerveleft.Thetwocarscrunchlightlyintoeachother,headlightsshattering,andIscreamagain.“Lucy!”She’srightinthemiddleofthem—She’snowhere.I spin around, looking for Lucy in the shadows. “Lucy, where are you?”

Lucy’sgone,likesheneverexisted.Lucyneverexisted.The cars slam on their brakes, and the driver of the police car leaps out

angrily.“Watchwhereyou’regoing!”“Therewassomethingintheroad!”They saw her—she isn’t real but they saw her, they swerved to miss her.

What’sgoingon?“I…”Thepolicemanstops,staringattheroadandpointing.“Hewasshouting

atsomeonerighthere.”Theotherofficergetsoutofthecar,slammingthedoorangrily.“Whatkindof

idiotramsaparkedpolicecar?”Noone’swatchingme;they’retoocaughtupintheirargument.Irunforthe

sideoftheroadanddashdownanarrowdriveway,vaultingthewoodenfenceattheendandsprintingthroughaparkinglot tothenextstreet.HowlongbeforetheynoticeI’mgone?Lucywasrightabouttheneighborhood—Idorecognizeitnow.Icanfindmywayhomefromhere.Howcouldsheknowthat?Whatisreal?

TWENTY

IRUNTHROUGHBACKALLEYS and side streets, hiding fromeverycarandlisteningforsirens.Ihearatrainwhistle,thoughIknowtherearestillnotracks nearby. At least I thought I knew it.Maybe the sound is real, andmymemoriesarethedelusion.There’sthebakerywhereIusedtowork,closedanddark.Mr.Muellercloses

early sohecangetupearlyand startbaking—four in themorningmostdays,earlierwhenhehasa specialorder.Now theovensareoff,coldanddeadandempty.Iremembersomethingempty—anemptycity.Whatdoesitmean?A helicopter passes overhead, a dark, thundering hole in the sky. I’m in a

residentialneighborhoodnow,andIclingtothetrunkofatree.Isthehelicopterlookingforme?ItfliesawayandIrunforthenextstreet,hidingunderacarport.A dog barks, first distant, then closer. I run to the next house on the street,peltingacrossthelawnattopspeed,thehelicoptersearchlightjustinchesbehindmethewholeway.Itdoesn’tseeme.Moredogs.Ipeekaroundthecarinthedrivewayandlookatthebackyard—

nogate,andnodog;thedogsmustbesomewhereelse.Searchdogs?Irunintothebackyard, leap at thewooden fence, andpullmyself over it.Thedogs aregettinglouder,butthey’restillbehindme.Irunouttothestreetandracethefulllength of the block.A police car crosses, two blocks ahead, and is gone. Thesearchlight plays over the houses behindme, and I run to the far side of thestreet.I can smell the dogs now—heavy, sweaty animals growling at the air and

strainingagainsttheirleashes.IfIcansmellthem,thewindisinmyfavor;theywon’tbeabletosmellmeuntilitshifts.There’sagolfcoursenearhere,witha

smallstream;Imightbeabletohidemyscentinthere.Irunanotherblocktotheright, ducking under the latchedmetal bar that blocks off the parking lot andslipping past the tiny pro shop to the greens beyond. The air is sweeter here,thoughthemuskofthedogsisstillthickinmynose.Ipauseattheedgeofatreeline, wait for the noise of the helicopter to pass, and sprint across the openground.Thestreamisn’tmuch,butIslogthroughitdesperately,watchingovermy shoulder for pursuers. No one’s seen me yet. I follow the stream until itmeetsthefarfence,thenrunalongituntilIfindagap.Thehousesontheothersidearerun-downandsmall;I’monlyhalfamilefromhomenow.I can’t smell thedogs anymore,whichmakesmeworried that thewindhas

changed,butIcan’thearthemeither—maybeIactuallylosttheminthestream.Iwatch from a bush as a police car drives down the next street, andwhen itpassesIrunintheotherdirection.Ihearfootstepsandshoutingfrombehindahighwall,andIpickupspeed.I’malmostthere.If the police are searchingmy neighborhood, theymust know I’m heading

home. They’ll bewaiting forme.How am I going to get past them? The airexplodesinarushofwindandnoise,andsuddenlythehelicopterisrightaboveme,searchlight jerkingbackandforthacrossthelawns.Irunforashedinthenearestyard; it’sdarkandcluttered inside,but ithidesme from the light.Thehelicoptermoveson,andthedeafeningroaroftherotorsgiveswaytothebayingofdogs.They’vefoundme.Iscramblewithmyhandsontheflooroftheshed,lookingforanythingIcanuseasaweapon,andcomeupwithaheavyjack—tooheavy,Ithink.Isetitbackdownandkeeplooking,discardingashortshovel,apair of garden shears, and a wobbly saw blade before finally finding a thickmetalpipe;it’sabouteighteenincheslong,solidandheavyinmyhands.Ipeekout of the shed, watching a black silhouette walk past on the far side of thestreet.Itgoes,andIcreepoutandaroundintothebackyard.I’mveryclosenow—ifIhopafewfencesIcancomeupbehindmyhouse,maybesneakinthebackwithoutanyoneknowing.Onlyafewhousesaway.Iclimbthefirstfence,pipeclenchedawkwardlyinmyhand.Idropdowninto

the next yard—nothing.The noise of the dogs gets louder, and I can hear thehelicoptercomingcloseraboveus.Irunacrossthegrassandhopthenextfence,strugglingwiththepipebeforefinallythrowingitoverandclimbingupafterit.

Anotheremptyyard.Ipickupthepipeandrunforthelastfence,freezingatthesoundofvoices.Morepolice.“Yousurehe’scominghere?”They’realreadyhere.They’reinmyowndriveway.“That’swhat the chief says.”A second voice.At least two of them. Iwalk

slowlyacrossthelastfewfeetoflawn,leaningasclosetothewoodenfenceasIcanwithouttouchingit.Aradiosquawks.“Suspect has been spotted by two officers off of Damen Street, say again

Michael Shipman has been spotted. Suspect fled the scene, may be headedhome.Suspect is not armed, say againnot armed;whereabouts of thegun areunknown.”I heft the pipe in my hand: if they think I’m not armed, that gives me an

advantage.Howmanyarewaitinginmydriveway?CouldItakethemoutbeforetheycalledforhelp?Beforetheydrewagun?IthinkaboutJimmy,andthemaggotinthealley.DoIdareattackanyoneat

all?“Canyoubelievewhathedidtothatguy?”asksoneofthecops.“Point-blank

in the chest, boom!Noprovocation at all.Kidwas just sitting there, trying totalkhimdown,andsuddenlyheshootshimoutofnowhere,likeitwasnothing.”“It’skindofweird,”saystheothercop.“Don’tyouthink?”Icreepcloser,headedfortheedgeofthefencetogetacloserlook.“Weird?”“Imean,yeah,it’scold-bloodedandeverything,butit’snothingliketherest

ofhisattacks.”I freezeagain, listening. Ihit the janitor,buthe said“attacks,”plural.What

attacksishetalkingabout?“Thankgoodness,”saystheothercop.“Yeah,” says the first, “but Imean,why?Whydoyoucutoff ten facesand

thenallofasuddenyoujustshootsomeone?Andthenleave?”They think I’m theRedLineKiller—but Ican’tbe,becauseAgentLeonard

saidtherewasacellphone.Butno,hesaidhethoughttherewasacellphone.Itwas all conjecture. I clutch thepipe tightly,myknuckleswhite.Whatdo I donow?

“Doyourememberthatoneinthewarehouse?”thecopcontinues,“wherehehungitfromthosehooks?”“Comeon,”saystheothercop,“whyareyoutalkingaboutthis?Waitinghere

forhimisspookyenoughasitis.”“That’swhyI’mtalkingaboutit,”saysthefirstcop,“becauseitisscary—this

isaknock-down,drag-out,scarydude.I’vetrainedwithmygunforhoursontherange,butI’veneveractuallyshotanyone,letalonekilledanyone—he’skilledacoupledozen.Whatifhecomeshere?Hehasalltheadvantage.Doyouwanttoendupscalpedandflayedandhangingonahook?”“Kill them,”whispersavoiceinmyear.I turninshock,butnobody’sthere.

“Go now, while they’re alone and distracted. Kill them now before they killyou.”Iscreamsilently:You’renotreal!“You know how he gets the faces off?” says the cop. “He uses a scalpel—

takes himhours, inch by inch,millimeter bymillimeter, peeling it away fromyourhead.It’slikehe’slookingforsomething.Felixsaysthey’restillalivewhenhedoesit—aliveandawake.”“Bashintheirbrains,”saysthevoice,loudernow.Cantheyhearit?“Usethe

pipeandcaveintheirskulls—it’saseasyascrushinganegg.”IcomearoundthefenceandIcanseethemnow,twocops,aloneinthedark,

faceslostinshadow.“Hecutsitawaybitbybit,”saysone,“slicingthemembranesundertheskin

soitallcomesoffinonebloodypiece.”“It feels so good to crush a skull, just banging and banging until there’s

nothingleft.”“Allyourtroublesgoawayandthere’snobodylefttobotheryou—”“No!”Istandup,pluggingmyearsandscreaming.“Stoptalking!”“Holy—!” The policemen spin around, facing me with their guns drawn.

“MichaelShipman,dropyourweapon!”“Hitthem!Killthem!”“Stoptalking!”“Michael,dropitnow!”“Killthem!”

Idropthepipeanditclangsloudlyagainstthecement.“Nowputyourhandsintheair!”“Everyonejustbackoffforasecond,”Isay,steppingbackward.Thecopsstep

forwardinunison,theirgunsneverwavering.“Justgivemeaminutetothink.”“Putyourhandsintheair!”I look up,wavingmy hand to silence the voice shoutingKill! Something’s

wrong—wherearealltheothercops?Where’sthehelicopterandthedogs?Whyaren’ttheycallingforbackup?Oneofthecopsputsahandontheradioclippedtohisshirt.“Dispatch,thisis

Officer Kopecky, we have found Michael Shipman; repeat, we have foundMichaelShipmanathisresidence.Requestimmediatebackup.”“Putyourhandsintheair,”saystheothercop.“Killthem…,”thevoicewhispers.Ishakemyhead.“Where’sthehelicopter?”“It’sonitsway,”saysthecop,butIhearnothing.“Putyourhandsintheair!”“Whydoyoukeepsayingthat?”“I’llaskthequestions,Michael!TellmewhyyoukilledJimmy.”Iraisemyarms.Isthiswhatcopsarereallylike?I’vemetsome,butthisisthe

firsttimeI’veeverbeenarrested—Ididn’texpectittobeso…clichéd.They’vedoneeverythingbutreadmemyrights.“Youhavetherighttoremainsilent,”saysthecop.“Anythingyousaycanand

willbeusedagainstyouinacourtoflaw.Youhavetherighttoanattorney—”“You’re not real, are you?” I stare at the cops in shock. They’re doing

everything I thinka copwould, as soonas I thinkof it—the radio, the rights,eventhewaythey’restanding.“You’rejustinmyhead.”“Youhavetherighttoanattorney.”“Thenwhatcomesnext!”Ishout.“Ifyou’rearealcop,thenwhatcomesnext?

Idon’tknow,soyoucan’tknoweither!”“Ifyoudonot…”Hestops,glancinginconfusionathiscompanion.“Ifyou

chooseto…towaivethisright,anattorneywillbe…providedforyou.”“Isthatit?”Iask.“Yesthat’sit,nowgetdownontheground!”Ilookatthem,backandforthbetweenthepolicemen,betweentheirguns.Are

theyreal?DoIriskit?I remember Lucy’s hands, strong and solid only when I’d accepted the

illusion; when she’d first arrived tonight they’d felt wrong, intangible, like Icouldpassrightthroughthem.ShewasonlyrealwhenIletherbereal.Idon’thavetoletthesecopsbereal.Ilowermyarms.Thisisit.“Getoutofmyway.”“Getyourhandsbackupandturnaround,”saysthecop.“I’mgoing insidenow,” I say, swallowingnervously. “If you thinkyou can

stopme,goaheadandtry.”Itakeastepforward.“Staywhereyouare.”Istepforwardagain.“I’mwarningyou,Michael,wewillshoot.Turnaroundandputyourhandsin

theair.”I stare at theguns, coldmetalgleaming in themoonlight, blackbarrels like

soullesseyes.Theycouldbereal.Theycouldkillmerighthere.Istepforwardagain.Theystepaside.“Don’tgointhere,Michael.You’renotgoingtolikeit.”“Goaway,”Isay,takinganothersteppastthem.“I’mdonewithyou.”Theyshoutbehindme.“We’regoingtoreportthis!”Istop,staringnervouslyahead.“Towho?”Theirvoicesarehollow.“Youknowwho.”Ipauseamoment,trembling,thencontinuewalking.Itdoesn’tmeananything

—they’rejusttryingtoscareme.WhenIreachthebackofthehouse,Iturntoseethem,butthey’regone.Iclimbthefewstepstothebackdoorandtrythehandle;it’sunlocked.Iopen

thedoorandwalkin.Myfatherstandsinthehall,ashotguninhishands.“Theytoldmeyoumightbecomingbackhere.”Hecockstheshotgun.“Itold

themyouwerejuststupidenoughtotryit.”

TWENTY-ONE

ISTANDINTHEDOORWAY,staringatmyfather.Helevelstheshotguncalmly,almostcasually,asifthefactthatit’sinchesfrommychestisthemostnormalthingintheworld.Hescratcheshishead.“IwaskindofthinkingI’dneverseeyouagain.”Ishiftnervously,eyesgluedtotheshotgun.“Thinkingorhoping?”“Yourdoctortoldmeyouwerenuts,”hesays.“Saidyouneededsomekindof

newmedicinethatwouldeithercureyouorkillyou.Isaid,‘Goforit.Getshimoutofmylifeeitherway.’”Inod.“I’mleaving.”Hisgriptightens,justslightly.“Youdidn’tcomeherejusttosaygood-bye.”“Ineedmypills.”“Youneedyour…”Hestops,staringatme, thenshakeshisheadandsnarls.

“You need your damn pills—that’s all you ever care about.” He raises theshotgun abruptly, sighting it straight intomy face. “I told you before, I don’twantahomelesscrackheadsonrunningaroundhere.”“It’snotcrack,”Isay,“it’smedicine.Ihaveaprescription—it’sgoingtomake

mebetter.”“You can’t get better!” he barks. “You’ve been screwed up since youwere

born, since before you were born for all I know. I’ve been paying for yourmedicine and your doctors and your everything else for your whole life,Michael, and it’s never done anything!You’re twenty years old andyou can’thold a job; you live here with me; you flunked out of school, now you’veflunkedoutofthenuthouse.Yougivemeonegoodreasonnottopullthistriggerandflunkyououtofthewholedamnworld.”I stare at the gun, too terrified to speak, too certain that anything I say—

anythingatall—willsetoffanyoneofahundreddifferenttriggersinhismind.I’velivedheretoolong,spent toomuchtimelisteningtohimandhidingfromhimandnursingthebruiseshegaveme.IfIcry,I’madisgrace;ifIagree,I’mweak; if I fightback, I’manungrateful,disrespectfulpunk. If IsayIneed thepills,itmeansI’macrazyretardandashametomymother;ifIsayIdon’t,itmeansI’maliarandawasteofmoneyandashametomymotheragain.Ican’twin.I’veneverwon.I stare down the shotgun, dark and deep and terrifyingly real. My father’s

neverpulledagunonmebefore—doeshereallywantmedead?Ishegoingtocallthehospital,ormaybethepolice?Ican’tthinkclearly—Ican’tsortthroughmythoughtsandcomeupwithanythingremotelyuseful.Whyishedoingthis?WhyamIhere?IknowwhyIcame,butnowitdoesn’tmakesenseanymoreandallIwanttodoisrun.Ineedmypills;Ican’tthinkwithoutmypills.Itrytoforcemyselftobecalm,recitingmantrasandnumbersandanythingI

canthinkoftoclearmyhead.Hewantstogetridofme—Icanhelphimwiththat.BetterIleaveonmyownthanmakehimcleanupadeadbody,right?Hedoesn’twanttoshootme—oratleastIhopehedoesn’t;maybehedoes.Buthedoesn’t want the hassles that come with it, that I know for sure. He hatesanythingthatdisruptshisroutine.Ilookmyfatherintheface,notquitemeetinghiseyes.“I’mleaving,”Isay

again.“I’mgoingaway,andyou’llneverseemeagain.”Hesnorts.“I’veheardthatonebefore.”“I’mserious,”Isay,tryingtokeepcalm.DoIdaretotellhimwhyI’mhere?

If I ask him for help—for anything at all—will I die before I even finish thesentence? “I…” Just ask him! “I need some clothes.” I gritmy teeth, bracingmyselffortheshotgunblastinmyface.“AndIneedmypills.”He doesn’t shoot. I watch his eyes, deep and brown, laced with a web of

bloodshotred.Afteramomenthespeaks.“Whereyougoing?”“Away.Nowhere.Outofstatesomewhere.”Hepausesagain,shiftinghishandsontheshotgun.Finallyhenods,gesturing

atme inderision.“Howyougonna live?Youneverhelda jobmore than fivemonths.”“I’llgetby.”

“Yougonnasteal?”Hestepscloser,droppingtheshotgunslightlytorevealafuriousscowl.“Yougonnasellthosedrugs,Michael?”“I’llgetajob,”Isayquickly.“I’lldo…something.ButI’mnotgoingtosell

thedrugsorbreakthelaw.Ijustneedmypills;Ican’tdothiswithoutthem.”“You’readisgrace.”Isaynothing.Hepausesamomentlonger,thenlowerstheshotgunalittlefarther.“Howyou

gonnagetthere?”“Where?”“Whereverthehellyou’regoing—howamIsupposedtoknow?”Ishakemyhead.“Idon’tknow.”Hewatchesmeamomentlonger,thendropstheshotguntohisside,dangling

itbyhisleg.Heraiseshischin.“Youpromiseyou’renevercomingback?”“Yeah.”“Then take the car.” He pauses, then shouts angrily. “Well go on, then,

dammit!Gogetyourclothes!”“You’regivingmeyourcar?”“Isaidgetyourclothesandyourpillsandgetoutofmyhouse.”“I…”Inod.“Thankyou.”“Don’t thankme, just go!” He waves his arm brusquely and turns around.

“AndIdon’twant toeverseeyouagain,youhearme?”Inodagainandwalkdownthehalltomyroom.TheKlonopinisundermybed,inashoeboxhalf-fullofemptybottles.Ihave

five bottles, about a year’sworth ofmental clarity—if theywork. I open onewithshakinghandsandswallowtwopillswithoutwaitingforwater.ItwilltakeawhilebeforeIfeelaneffect,butIfeelsaferjusthavingtheminmyhand,justknowing that Ihavesome inmysystem.Iscrounge through thebottomof thebox,lookingformore,andwhenIfindnothingIgothrougheverydrawerofmynightstand,lookingforeveryloosepillIcanfind.ItseemssostupidthatIusedtohatethese—thatIeverrefusedtotakethem.Didn’tIknowwhattheymeanttome?Didn’t I knowwhat itwas like to livewithout them?That’s the problemwith depression—it discourages its own treatment. It’s like a virus, almost,

perfectlyadaptedagainstitsonlynaturalpredator.Ilookatthepileofpillsonmybed,countingthemoverandoverinmyhead.

Whyismyfathergivingmehiscar?Hedoesn’tlikeme—hewasreadytokillme just a fewminutes ago.He’s never done a nice thing forme inmy life. Iguesshegavemethisroom.Ilookaroundatthebarewallsandthehalf-emptycloset.Whydid—Myroomhasbeensearched.Ithasn’tbeenransacked—nothing’stippedover

or torn apart—but I can see some things that are definitelymoved.A lamp, acomb, a book on my nightstand. Was Dad looking for something, or was itsomeone else—the police,maybe, or the hospital, or Them?The only thing IhaveworthstealingistheKlonopin,andit’sstillhere.Whatweretheysearchingfor?IimagineAgentLeonardoftheFBI,lookingforsecretmessagesfromtheChildrenoftheEarth;maybeotheragentstoo,scouringmyroomforevidenceoftheRedLinekillings.“Yourfather’sgoingtobetrayyou,”saidavoice.“Youneedtokillhimnow,

whilehisguardisdown.”I ignore thevoiceandopenmydresser, talkingout loud todrownitout:“It

doesn’tmatterwhytheysearchedmyroom.I’mleaving. I’mgoing to takeofftheseclothesandputonsomenewones,andI’m…”Ipullonacleanshirtandthe feel of it stopsme: deliciously clean, like an embrace.Whenwas the lasttime anyone embracedme, or gaveme anykindof friendly human contact? Ihugmyself, pressing the shirt againstmy skin, closingmy eyes and trying toconjure Lucy from the depths ofmy brain. She’s gone. I wipemy eyes. “Notime.Keepmoving.”Ishoveahandfulofshirtsandsocksandunderwearintoabackpack,thencraminthefivebottlesofpills.Only one thing left to do. Iwalk back down the hall;my father is outside,

doingsomethingwiththecar.Takinghisstuffout,Iguess.Ifindthephonebookand flip it open: Fillmore, Finch, Fischer. There’s aKelly Fischer onHolidayStreet.Iwritedowntheaddressandputthephonebookaway.Myfathercomesinthebackdoor,theshotgunreplacedbyasinglekeyheld

tightlyinhisfingers.Heholdsitout.“Younevercomeback.”Inod.“Inevercomeback.”“You never call, you neverwrite, I never hear from you or about you ever

again.”“I’llevenchangemyname.”Hedropsthekeyinmyhand.“TakeHighway34.It’syourquickestshotout

ofthecity,andfromthereyou’reonyourown.”Istareathim,notknowingwhattosay.ThewordsareoutbeforeIcanstop

them.“Whyareyoudoingthisforme?”“I’mnotdoingitforyou.”Inod.Formymother.Alwaysmymother.“Nowleave,beforeIcallthepolice.”Ipause,sayingnothing,thenturnandpushopenthedoor.Hedoesn’tfollow

meout.Ithrowmybagandtheoldclothesintothecarandclimbinafterthem,staringatthedashboardlikeasleepingenemy.WhenIturnitonI’llfeelit—itdoesn’tsendasignal,thewayaphonedoes,butitdoescreateanelectricfield.I’llfeelitvibratingthroughmelikeaseizure.Butit’sthequickestwaytoKelly,andtotheanswersshe’sgottohave.Iputthekeyintheignition.IfIleavetheradiooffIshouldbefine—alittle

pain,maybe,butnothingterrible.Ihope.I turn thekey, and the engine roars to life, and I feelmy feet prickle like a

waveof static electricity. It stings,but itdoesn’t crippleme. I shift intodrive,whisperingasilentthanksthatmyfatheronlydrivesautomatics;Ihaven’tdrivenacarinalmostthreeyears,andIdon’tthinkIcouldgetastickshiftoutofthedriveway. I pull onto the street, glancing back one last time at the house.Myfatheriswatchingfromthewindow.Heclosesthecurtains.Idriveaway.Idrive slowly, scanning the streets forcops. Idon’tknowhowmanyof the

onesIsawbeforeareevenreal,ifanywererealatall,but—There’sone.Iturnmyhead,tryingtolookinconspicuous,andhedrivespast.Holiday is on the far side of town. I turn at the next intersection, weaving

throughnarrowresidentialstreets,thenturnagain.It’snotuntilIgettothefirstbigcrossstreetthatIrealizehowterrifiedIamtodriveinrealtraffic.Iwaitforagapinthecarsandpullontothebigstreet,keepingintherightlaneanddrivingslowly.Speedingtruckshonkandpullaroundme,rockingmycarwithburstsofwindastheyspeedpast.Thenoiseandthelightsaretoomuch,andIpullback

offonthenextstreet.Itfeelssaferonthesmallerroads,butIcan’tjusthidelikethis—I need to keep moving. I wander through the back streets for a while,psyching myself up, and stop at the corner of another big street. This one’scalmer than theother,with fewercarsandslower traffic. I takeadeepbreath,andduckmyheadasanothercopdrivespast.Myhead isdown,nearlyon theseat.There’saredblinkinthepassenger’sfootwell.Ileandownfurtherandseeasmall,rectangularoutline—alittleplasticbrick.

Thelightblinksagain,andIrecognizeitasacellphone.Irecoilinterror,likeI’djustseenasnake;myfootcomesoffthebrakeandthecarrollsforward,thenlurches to a stop when I get my foot back down. A cell phone! Is someonetrackingme?Didmyfather forget it? If Ihadn’tbeen looking in just therightplace, at just the right time, I wouldn’t have even seen it—if my father haddroppeditduringtheday,whentheredlightwasn’tasvisible,hemightneverhaveseeniteither.Ican’tjustleaveitthere.Iputthecarinparkandleanoverslowly,reaching

outgingerly.Whatifitchirpsorbuzzes?Whatifitshocksmeorattacksme?IfeellikeI’mreachingforabomb.Ihavetopickitup—it’sbettertodoitnow,whenI’mthinkingabout it, thanhave itgooffwhile I’mdriving. Ipause,myhandhoveringoverit.Itblinksagain.Igrowlandpickitup,yankingitbacktomyseatandflippingitopenasfastasIcan.Thescreenblindsmeasitlightsup,andIsquintagainstpainasIsearchforanoffswitch.Idon’tseeone;I’veneverusedacellphone,Idon’tevenknowhowtheywork.Ijamthebuttons,carefulnottopushanythingthatmightstartacall,allthewhileterrifiedthatacallwillcomeinatanysecond.Nothing’sworking—whyisn’tthereanoffswitch?Iflipthephoneoverandlookattheback:thebatteries.Ipopopenthedoorandyankoutwhatlookslikealittleblackbatterypack.Thescreengoesblankandtheredlightstopsblinking.I slump back in my seat, breathing heavily. It’s dead now. I roll down the

windowandthrowoutthephone—butwait.Whatif theyfindit—whatif theyuseittotracemypath?TheymightknowthatIlefthome,buttheywon’tknowwhereIwent;findingthecellphonewouldtellthemmydirectionandhelpthemfollowme.Idon’tknowifIcandarethrowanythingaway—thephone,myold

clothes,notanything—untilIcandestroythemcompletely.Igetout,collectthephoneandthebatterypack,anddropthemintothecupholder.AslongasIkeepthebatteryout, theycan’tuse it to traceme. Iput thecarback intodriveandstare at the busy street. Linda covered a lot of life skills in my therapy, butdrivingwasn’toneof them;thecontrolsfeel looseandalien, like it’sdesignedforadifferentbody.Ican’tdothis.Ihave todo this.The tingling inmyfeetand legs feelsstrangeandpainful,

butit’snotdebilitating,andI’mgettingbetteratignoringit.ThetrafficisfasterthanI’dlike,butIcandriveinit.Icanevenseeahighwaysign—it’s88,not34,butitwillgetmetoHolidayStreet.Imergeover,tryingtokeepupwithtraffic,andpullupontothehighway.It’seasieronahighway—faster,butwithnostopsor turnsorcross traffic. Igrip thewheelwithhard,whiteknuckles.Head-andtaillightspassmelikebeamsofsolidcolor.Ifindtheexit;Ifindthestreet;Ifindthebuilding.It’sanapartment,butnotthekindwithagateoradoorman.Iparkandwalk

in, climbing stairs and looking for the number. 17A. There’s a light in thewindow.Willsheturnmein?IssheoneofThem?Iknocksoftly.Sheopensthedoor,recognizesme,andscreams.Igrabherfaceinpanicand

shoveherbackinside.

TWENTY-TWO

SHE STRUGGLES, FIGHTING AND BACKING AWAY. I keep afirm grip on her jaw with one hand, wrapping my other arm around hershoulders.Iknockthedoorclosedwithmyfoot;shekicksandflailsherfists.“Don’t scream,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just don’t want you to

scream.”Shebitesmyhand,andItrynottohowl.Mygripgoeslooseandshestumbles

awayfromme,falling;shegoesforherpurse,leapingacrossthecouch.“Theytoldmethiswouldhappen;theytoldmenottotalktocrazypeople.”I dive after her, knocking the purse from her hand; a can of mace goes

spinningacrossthefloor.Shekicksmeagain,asolidblowtothechest,knockingawaymy breath. I choke on the sudden void and she runs to a small counterseparatingherlivingroomandkitchen.She’sunfoldingacellphone.Howdoessheknow?Igaspforair,suckinginasuddenburst,andrunforwardjustintimetoslam

myhandsdownonhers.Sheshrieksanddropsthephone,herfingersredfromtheimpact.Isnatchupthecellphoneandbenditbackward,movingit toofar,snappingitinhalf.ShecriesandrunsforthedoorbutIgrabherarmandyankherback.Shefalls,sobbing.Iletgogingerlyandblockthedoorwithmybody.“I’mnothere tohurtyou,”Isayagain.She’scrying.“Ididn’tcomehere to

attackyou,orhurtyou,oranything,Ijustwanttotalk.”“Ithinkyoubrokemyfingers,youbastard.”“I’msorry—youscaredme,Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Icouldn’tletyoushock

me.”“Shockyou?”“Thephone,”Isay,gesturingtowardthefragments.“Youweretryingtoattack

mewithyourphone.”“Iwascallingthepolice,youidiot.”Herfaceisamaskofhurtandfear.I’veruinedeverything.“Theysaidyouweren’tlikelytocomeaftermeinperson,”shesays,rubbing

tearsfromhereyewiththepalmofherhand.“Iguesstheycantell that tomyrapedandmutilatedcorpse,now,huh?”“IalreadytoldyouI’mnotgoingtohurtyou.”“Youattackedme!”“Youscreamed!” I say.“Ipanicked!There’sa lotofpeople looking forme,

andIcan’taffordtoattractanymoreattention.”“Thenwhydidyoucomehere?”“Because I need help.” I crouch down, still guarding the door but getting

closertohereye-line.“Ican’tdothisonmyown.There’ssomethingbiggoingon,andIhavesomeofthepiecesandyouhaveothers,andtogetherwemightbeabletolearnenoughtostopit.”“You’retalkingaboutthekillings.”“I’mtalkingabouteverything: theRedLine, theFacelessMen, theChildren

oftheEarth—they’reallconnectedsomehow,they’reallpartofabiggerpicture—”“Youarecrazy.”Sherubshereyes.“WhathaveIgottenmyselfinto?”“Look,” I say, pulling out the paper, “I can prove it to you. The janitor at

Powellattackedmelastnight,allalone,wheneveryoneelsewasasleep.Heevenknockedoutthenightnurse.Hewascarryingthis.”I hold out the paper. She looks at it cautiously, as if I were handing her a

snake.“Whatisit?”“Lookatit.”Shedoesn’tmove.“Dropit,andbackaway.”“Whateveryouwant.”Itossthepapergentlytowardher,thenraisemyhands

andpressbackintothedoor.Shepicksupthepaper.I’mholdingmybreath.Somepartofmeisstillterrifiedthepaperisn’treal—

thatit’sblank,oracleaningschedule,orsomethingelsethathasnothingtodowithme.Shelooksatitcarefully,pursingherlips.

“Whatisthis?”“Youtellme.”Shestaresatit,eyesflickingbackandforth.She’sreadingit.Whatisshereading?“It’s yourwhole life,” she says, looking up atme. “It’s everywhere you’ve

everlivedorworkedorwenttoschool.”Icollapseagainstthecorner,clutchingmyfaceinrelief,gaspingandsobbing.

“It’sreal,”Isay,“it’sreal.Thisisactuallyhappening.”“Yousaythejanitorhadthis?”“It’s real,” I mumble again. I sink to the floor, leaning on the door in

exhaustion.“I’mnotcrazy.”“Didhehaveanythingelse?Anythingontheotherpatients?”Ishakemyhead.“Nothing—just thatanda ringofkeys.AndaPost-itnote

withthegatecode.”“Andyou’re sure itwas thenight janitor?” she asks. “You’re sure itwasn’t

someotherguywho’dsnuckin?”“I’mpositive.”Sheraisesherselftoherknees.“CouldyourecognizehisfaceifIshowedyou

somepictures?”“Hedidn’thaveaface.”Shestops,mouthopen,thenshakesherhead.“Notthisagain.”“It’s true,” I say,“ormaybehehada face,but Icouldn’t see it—itwas like

therewasa…fieldorsomething,likeabluraroundhishead.Hishairwasthere,buthisfacewasjusta…nothing.”“You’rehallucinating.”“No,”Isayfirmly.“Imean,sometimesyes,butthiswasreal.Ipromiseitwas

real.Iwasstillonmydrugs.”“Areyoustillonthemnow?”“Yes.Differentones,Imean,buttheystillwork.”Shesighs.“Listentoyourself,Michael.Howcanyourecognizethejanitorif

youcouldn’tevenseehisface?”“But I…” I stop, and I realize that I’ve never seen the janitor’s face—I’d

never seenhimatallbefore lastnight,but I’dheardhim,and I’d…felthim.

SomehowI’dalwaysknownwhohewas,andwherehewas,andI’dknowniteventhroughthewallandthecloseddoor.“I justknew,”Isay.“It’s likeIhada…anothersense,likesightorscentorsomething,butdifferent,likeanewonethatwastotally…natural.”Sherubshereyes,pullingherselfuptositinachair.“Doyouhearhowcrazy

yousound?Canyouunderstandhowwrong thisallsounds?You’re livinginafantasyworld,Michael—noneofthisisreal.”“Iknowitsoundscrazy,”Isay.“Iknowitsoundsstupidandridiculousand…

and…listen,I’mnotgoodattalking.Ineverdoit,notwithanyonereal.SoIdon’tknowhowtomakeyoubelieveme,but Iknowthatyouhave to.Okay?TheFacelessMenarereal,andtheyhaveaplan,andwehavetostopthem.”“Thenwhat’stheirplan?”“I…don’tknowyet.”Shecloseshereyesandfallsbackinthechair.“Ican’tbelievethis.”“Butit’sreal,”Isay,“Iswearit’sreal.IthassomethingtodowithChemCom.

Youhavetotrustme.”“But I can’t trust you,” she says. “You are sick; you are delusional. I don’t

knowhowyoucaneventrustyourself.”I shake my head, trying to control my breathing.Don’t get nervous. Don’t

freakout.“Yousawthepaper,”Isay.Iholdmyforehead,suckinginalong,slowdraughtofair.“Whataboutthepaper?”“Idon’tknowaboutthepaper,”shesays.“Itcouldbeanything.”“Whatcoulditbethatisn’thorriblysuspicious?”Shestaresatme,jawclenched,thenthrowsupherhands.“Idon’tknow!I’m

not a psychiatrist, I’m not a… I don’t knowwhy you came here in the firstplace.”“Becauseyou’vestudiedthem,”Isay.“TheRedLineKillerandtheChildren

of theEarth; Icamebecauseyouknowwhat they’redoing,andwho theyare,andeverything.”“Idon’tknowanything,”shesays,“nobodydoes.I’mnotevenonthatstory

anymore.”“Yougaveup?”“Myeditorkilledit.”

“Andthatdoesn’tsoundlikeacover-uptoyou?”“Hepulledthestorybecausetherewasnothingtoit,”shesays,“noleads,no

witnesses, no evidence. If thepolicehavemore info about thekillings they’renotsharingit,andtheChildrenoftheEarthareablackhole:theywon’ttalktoanyone,nooneeverdefects,andthelastreportertogointotheircommunenevercameout.”Shestiffens,hereyestearingupagain.“Shewasafriendofmine.”“Hasanyonegoneinafterher?”Iask.“Herfamily,thepolice,anyone?”“Shehad to join thecult,officially,or theywouldn’t lether in,” saysKelly.

“Shesignedahundredwaiversandlegalpapersandwhoknowswhatelse,justtogetthroughthedoor,andnownoonecantouchher.”Shesitsback,tiredanddefeated. “I guess she thought she could handle it, but … she’s beenbrainwashed,Iknowit.”Inod,tryingtosortthroughthefacts.It’sjustlikeAgentLeonardsaidabout

theotherkidnappedchildren—theywentstraighttothecult,fullyconverted,andnothinganyonesaidcouldconvincethemtoleave.Itsoundslikebrainwashing,sure,butthosekidswerebrainwashedbeforetheyevenjoinedthecult.Theydiditwhenwewereinfants—implants,maybe,thoughthatdoesn’tmakeanysenseforananti-technologycult.Whatevertheydid,somehowitdidn’tworkrightonme.I lookatKelly.“Is thereanyevidence,” Isay,speakingslowly,“anysignat

all,thatthecultistsmighthavesomething…”Ipause,prayingthatshe’lltakemeseriously,“…implantedintheirheads?”Kellypeerscloser,eyesnarrowandfocused.“Whydoyouaskthat?”“I’ve been telling people for months now that I think there’s something

implantedinmyhead,eversincetheschizophreniacameon,butnowIthinkitmightactuallybetrue.”Ilookatherclosely;hereyesarewider.“Thisisn’tthefirsttimeyou’veheardthis,isit?Doyouknowsomething?”Sheleansback.“It’sjustthat…”Shestops,sighs,andrunsherfingersthrough

her hair. “It’s just that it’s weird you would say that, because just today—literally, just a few hours ago—this other writer and I were talking about thecase,andabouttheRedLineKiller,andhowtheevidencemadeitlooklikehewas…”Shelooksup.“See,hedoesn’t justbashthemin,hedoesn’t justbreakthem. Our source in the coroner’s office said that he…” She grimaces. “He

pokestheface.Heprodsit,likehe’sstudyingit.Hecracksintothenasalcavity,andintothesinuses,andit’stotallylikehe’sjust…lookingforsomething.”Myheart beats faster.This is the information I’ve been looking for. “Don’t

you seewhat thismeans? There’s a real link now between theKiller and theChildrenandtheFacelessMen.Andme.”“Howdoesthislinkanythingtoyou?”“TheChildrenoftheEarthkidnappedpregnantwomen,”Isay,“includingmy

mom,buttheydidn’twantthewomen,theywantedus—theywantedthebabies.Noonehaseverfiguredoutwhytheywantedus,butmaybethisisit.Didyouknowthateveryoneofthosekidnappedkidshasgonebacktojointhecult?”Shefrowns.“Allofthem?”“Everyonebutme,”Isay.“AnagentfromtheFBIcametovisitmeatPowell,

hesaidthey’dbeenwatchingmeforyearstoseeifIdidthesamething.”“HowcanyoubesuretheFBIguywasreal?”“He talked toDr. Little,” I say. “You talked toDr. Little, right?” She nods

again.“Theneithertheagentisrealorallthreeofyouarefake.”“Andyouthinkthatthis…implant,whateveritis,broughtthemallbackto

thecultwhentheygrewup.”Inodeagerly,standingandpacing.“Itcontrolstheirmindssomehow;ittakes

them over so they’re not even themselves anymore. The implant explainseverything.Itcreatessomekindofelectricfield—thesamethingthatblursouttheirfaceswhenItrytolookatthem,andthesamethingthatletsmerecognizethemandseethemforwhotheyarewhennooneelsecan.Iknowwhotheyarewithoutevenseeingthem,andthat’showImustbedoingit—I’m…usingmyfield to feel their field.And that’swhyotherelectrical fieldshurtme,becausethey’re conflictingwith the field that’s already inmy head.” I swallow. “Andthat’swhyIhaveschizophrenia,becausemyimplantisbroken,andit’sthrowingmywholebrainintochaos.”Shewatchesme. Her eyes arewet with tears. She purses her lips. “I’m so

sorryforyou,”shewhispers.“Idon’tknowhowtohelpyou.”“YoucantellmewhereIwas,”Isay.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Before the police found me, before you and I met in the hospital, I was

somewhereelse—Idon’tknowwhere,orwhy,becauseIlostmymemory.ButifIcangobackthere,backtowhereIwas,thenmaybeIcanremember.Whatevertheyhave—whateverthey’redoing—theansweristhere.”Sheshakesherhead.“That’scrazy.”“SoamI.”Icrouchdown,meetinghereyes.“Youwantedtoknowtheirplan?

Iamtheirplan;me,andtheotherkids,andthatreporterwhowon’tcomeout,andGodonlyknowshowmanyotherpeople.Theyputsomething inus—theychangewhoweare.Idon’tknowwhy,andIdon’tknowhow,andIdon’tknowhowfarthey’regoingtotakeit,butIknowwehavetostopthem.Wehavetodosomething.”Iputmyhandonthearmofherchair.“Youhavetohelpmefindthem.”She looks at me, staring intently, studying my face like she’s looking for

something—somevisiblesignofwhatevertheFacelessMenhavestashedinsidemyhead.Shesaysnothing,simplywatching.Whatisshethinking?Shetakesadeepbreathandnods.“It’sonmycomputer.I’llgolookitup.”I nod, backing away, and she stands up and rubs her smashed fingers. She

goes into the back room and I collapse into a chair, exhausted and drained. Ineedtosleep.Ineedmorefood.Idragmyselfbacktomyfeetandgoaroundthecounterintothekitchen,openingthefridge.Asoftmusicaltrillwaftsoutoftheback room, a computer loading up, and soon I hear typing. I’ve never likedcomputers, and I’ve rarely ever used one, even before the schizophrenia. If Ihave something inmyhead that reacts to them, I guess itmakes sense that itwouldhavebeentheremywholelife.ShehasaStyrofoamboxinthefridge—halfasmotheredburritoandsomerefriedbeans.Ipullitoutandstarteatingitcold;I’veneverlikedmicrowaveseither.Moretyping.Whatdoessheneedtotype?Ifshe’ssearchingforinformation

that’salreadyonhercomputer,couldn’tshe justdoitwithamouse?Itsoundslikeshe’stypingawholenovel—Oranemail.Idroptheboxandsprintdownthehall,chargingintotheroomto

see an open email program lighting up the screen. She curses and grabs themouse, and I barrel into her at full speed, knocking her from the chair. Sheclutches at themouse and keyboard, yanking themoff the desk as she falls. Ilookatthescreen.Theemail’salreadybeensent.

“Youliedtome!”“You need help,” she says, crouching on the floor. “You are sick, and

delusional,andyou’regoingtogetyourselfhurt.”Ishoutagain,anangryroar.“You lied tome!Getoutof theway.” I rip the

keyboardfromherhands,settingitbackonthedesk,thenreachforthemouse.“Giveittome.”“Whatareyougoingtodo?”“I’mgoingtofindwhereIwas.”“Youneedhelp.”“Givemethemouse!”ShehandsitoverandIsetitgentlyonthedesk,untanglingthecords.Ipull

thechairuprightandsitdown,stillanarm’slengthawayfromthecomputer.Icanuseit,butIknowit’sgoingtohurt.Idon’thaveachoice.Igritmyteethandslidethechairforward,feelingmyheadpressintotheelectricalfieldlikeapoolofchargedwater.Itbuzzeslikearawcurrent.Thespeakerschirp—ashort,syncopatedrhythm.Iscootbackinstantly,breathingheavily.“Whatwasthat?”“Itwasthespeakers.”I remember that sound from Powell, fromDr. Little’s experimentswith the

speakersandthecellphone.“Doyouhaveanothercellphone?”“Youbrokemyphone,that’swhyIhadtosendanemail.”“That sound—audio speakers make that sound when a cell phone signal

passesthroughthem.Whatdoyouhaveherethat’ssendingasignal?”“Nothing.”“Thenyou’vebeenbugged,”Isay,“ortappedorsomething,becauseithasto

becomingfromsomewhere.Thatsoundonlyhappenswhenone fielddisruptsanother—”Istop.Thethinginmyhead—ifmytheoryisright,itcreatesafieldofitsown.Ileanforward,bracingmyselfforthestaticprickling.Myheadentersthefieldaroundthespeakers;itdancesthroughme,sickandpainful.Thespeakerschirpagain.“Listen,”Iwhisper.“Icanhearit.”“No,”Isay,“insideit.Canyouhearit?”Istare,grittingmyteethatthepain,

listeningashardasIcantoasoftsomethinginthewhitenoise.“Buriedinthesignalthere’sa…something.IswearI’vehearditsomewherebefore.”Welisten, theelectric fieldscrossingandblending, thespeakerchirpingand

buzzing,andforonebriefmomentthewhitenoisecoalescesintoasingleword.“Michael.”Westaggerbackinunison,gaspingforbreath.“Didyouhearthat?”Shenods.“Whatthehellisgoingon?”“Itwastalkingtome.”“Thethinginyourhead?”Inod,swallowing.Ialmostdon’tdaretosayit.“It’sintelligent.”She stepsaway,watchingmeclosely,her faceamaskof terror. “Getoutof

here.”“Doyoubelievemenow?”“Idon’twanttobeapartofthis,justgetoutofherenow.”“GivemetheaddressandI’llgo.”“Idon’tknowhowmuchtimeyouhave,”shesays,pressingbackagainstthe

wall. “I emailed a friend ofmine, told her to call the police—Idon’t know ifshe’sevenreadityet.”The speakersbeepagain, startlingus, but it’sonly a small chime.Anemail

alert.She crouches in frontof thedesk andpoints at the cornerof the screen.“Shejustresponded.Policeareontheirway.”“Givemetheaddress.”“Youdon’thavetime—”“Ihave toknowwhere I’mgoing.Giveme the addresswhere Iwas found,

andtheaddressforChemCom.”“ChemCom?”“They’reapartofthistoo.”She shakes her head. “They had a victim there, but I don’t think the

company’sinvolved—theywerebeingrobbed.”“Robbed?”“Onapretty regularbasis; I’vegot it inmynotes.”Sheclicksona fileand

scans down the document. “Formamide and potassium hydroxide. The

company’s beside the point—you need to find whoever was stealing thosechemicals.”“Whyarethosechemicalsimportant?”“Becauseyoucancombinethemtomakecyanide.”“No.” I shakemy head, pacing the small office. “This is toomuch. It’s the

ChildrenoftheEarth,it’sgottobe.We’vegottostopthem.”Sheclicksopenanotherdocument,scrollingthroughpageafterpageofnotes.

“Here it is.” She fumbles on the desk for a pen, writing on the back of anenvelope. “The police found you in an overpass, under I-34, but you ran andtheychasedyoutoanabandonedhouseatthisaddress.Maybeyoucanhideoutthereagain.”“Wait.”My heart seems to stop,my senses tunneled in on a single phrase.

“Whatdoyoumean,anabandonedhouse?”“It’sawholeabandoneddevelopment.”Shehandsmethepaper:STONEBRIDGE

COURT.“Theownerwentbankrupt in therecession,andthehouseswereneverfinished.”Ifeelpaleandweak.“It’sempty?”“Yeah,” she says, staring atme inworry, “just… rows and rows of empty

houses.Why,doesthatmeansomething?”Siren’swailinthedistance,andourheadssnapuptolisten.“Ineedtogettherenow.”“They’realmosthere,”shesays.“Idon’tknowifyoucangetaway.”“Doesthiswindowopen?”Sherushestotheblinds,turningoffthelightbeforepullingthemopen.“It’sa

long drop; this is the second floor.” She wrenches open the window. “Becareful.”“Don’ttellthemwhereI’mgoing.”“Iwon’t.”Iclimbthroughthewindowandleapoutintothedarkness.

TWENTY-THREE

THEHOLLOWCITY.There’s a chain-link fence along the outside and a sign: WELCOME TO

STONEBRIDGECOURT.A suburbandevelopment, half-finished and abandoned. Ieasethecarslowlydownthefence,watchingtheemptyhousesslippastmeinthe dark. There’s a way in—somehow I don’t just assume this, I know it, asclearlyasifI’dbeenherebefore.Ihavebeenherebefore.DidIlivehere?DidIhidehere?WhatwillIfind?Irememberadeeppit.DidIfallintoit?ButthepolicemensaidIfelloutofa

window.…There’s abreak in the fence, awide, empty street that leads into thevacant

neighborhood beyond. I stare at it, irrationally terrified, but I summon mycourageandturnin,movingwithoutthinking.Ibelonghere.Don’tI?Arollofchainlink,oncestretchedacrosstheroad,isnowrolledback,andIeasepastitcarefully;Myheadlightscatchthefirsthouseinbrilliantbeamsoflight,ahollowshellcovered ingraffiti, amalevolent shroudof jagged, screamingwords.Thelightsmovepastitandthehousedisappearsagainindarkness.Idriveslowly,notingeachemptyhouseasIpassit.Two.Four.Ten.Twenty.

Emptymailboxesstandlikesoldiers;emptywindowsstarelikecadaverouseyes,blackanddeaduntil,hereandthere,myheadlightscatchoneinthedistanceandshinebackabrightflashofreflection.Mostofthehomesarefinished,atleastontheoutside,butthelawnsarebaredirtandthedrivewaysaredottedwithextralumberorbagsofcement.Brandedlabelsmarkeachwindowlikeapupil,givingeachhouseasly,sidelonggaze.They’respyingoneachother.Afurtiveshadowappearsanddisappearsaroundacorner.I’mnotalone.I come to a cross street and pause, studying the house on the far corner—

identicaltotheothers,butdifferent.ThisiswhereIturnright.It’snotamessagebutamemory,andwhenIturnIfeelasenseoffamiliarity:thisistheway.Thenextstreetsparksanothermemory—turnleft—buteachnewmomentofinsightincreasesmyunease.Ishiftinmyseat,namelesslyanxious.Mypathisaccurate,butitisn’tright.Ifollowitanyway.ThenextintersectionisaT,andIknowwithperfect clarity that I must go forward, off the street and between the houses.WhenIfollowedthispathbefore,Iwasonfoot.Ipause,headlightsshiningonthe hollowhouses, then shakemyhead and turn. I’m safe in the car—I don’tknowwhat’soutthere,orwhatI’mgoingtofind.Ifollowthestreetsaroundandbehind, twisting and turning until I catch the path again, seizing on it like apsychicscent.Thisway.Ifollowitdownanotherrowofemptyshellsuntilmymind says stop, and the house besideme feels powerfully familiar. I’ve beenherebefore.Iusedtolivehere.There’s a wide picture window in the front wall, about twelve feet off the

ground.Itiscompletelyshattered.Istopthecar,staringatthebrokenwindow.Thebaredirtlawniscoveredwith

footprints;mostoftheglassisgone,eithercleaneduporstolen.Iopenthecarandstepout,lockingitcarefullybehindme.Thefrontdoorisframedbytatteredyellow strips, a DO NOT CROSS police line long ago ripped away and nowhanging limply by the sides. I touch the doorknob gingerly, half expecting anelectric shock or a painful cell phone buzz, but nothing happens. The knobdoesn’t turnbut thedooropensanyway,andIcansee that the latch isbroken.The space beyond is a small landing,with stairs leading up to thewindowordownintodarkness.Istep inside,movingaroundthedoorand therailingsand thestairsbypure

musclememory,completelyathomeinaplaceI’veneverbeen.Iclimbthestairsand I know that Kelly was right—I did live here. I stare out of the brokenwindow,lookingacross thevastfieldofdarkandemptyhouses.This iswherethey caught up with me—I retreated here to hide, but they found me and Ijumpedoutofthiswindow,knockingmyselfunconscious.Istepbackfromthesoft square ofmoonlight on the floor.What else is in this house?Did I leaveanythinghere?Iwalkthroughthekitchen,touchingeachhollowspaceasIpass:aholeinthe

counterforastove,andnearitaholeforadishwasher.Thecupboardshavenodoors.Thefridgehookupshanglimpandunused.Eachroomisempty,butfamiliar,andasIexploreIstruggletopiecetogether

not justmymemoriesof thehousebutmymemoriesof the twoweeksIspenthere.ThisiswhatDr.Vanekworkedsohardtohelpmeremember—oratleastthiswaspartofit.Iwalkthroughunfinisheddoorways,desperatetoremembermore.There is a dark hole in a bedroomwall, with a jagged, exploded edge, but

whenIgetcloserIseeit’snotaholebutasmear,oldandbrown,perhapstwofeetwideandthreefeettall.Blood,maybe?Whose?Idon’trememberifitwasherebeforeornot.DidIhurtacop?DidIhurtsomeoneelse?IfIkeeplookinglongenough,willIfindmoreRedLinevictimsburiedinthe

floor?I head downstairs to search the basement, finding most of the rooms

unfinished—bareSheetrockinsomeplaces,exposedcementinothers,linedandfracturedbyalatticedwoodenframe.Icombeachroomforclues,terrifiedbutfindingnothing.Thelightistoodark,nearlyprimordial;I’msearchingbytouchmorethananythingelse.There’snothingoutofplace,andthefactthatIknowthatisthemostterrifyingthingofall.Inthefinalbedroom—myroom,Iknow—Ifindadamp,rattyblanketandasmallcardboardbox.Perchedontopisanoldcordedphone,itsthincordtrailingintothecloset.Iknowthephoneworks;thisisnotaguessbutafact.Ipickitup,hearadial

tone, and set it back down.Why does an empty house have a phone line? Itdoesn’thaveelectricity,itdoesn’thavewater—itdoesn’tevenhavesinks—butthe phone line works perfectly, the power safely shielded in wires instead ofbroadcastthroughtheair.It’salmosttoogoodtobetrue—theperfecthideoutfora homeless man with a crippling physical reaction to electromagnetic fields.WhereelseinthecitycouldIfindaplacesosheltered,sofamiliar,yetsodistantfromany typeof signal?There’snocivilization for thousandsof feet ineverydirection: no cell phones, no radios, nomicrowaves, nowireless Internet. Nopeople, facedor faceless.Livinghere Iwouldhavebeen free fromeverythingthat terrified me, yet retaining access to basic amenities like shelter andcommunication.Whosetthatup?Whoinstalledthephoneline?

Whomaintainedit?Electricitycouldbestolen,leechedfromanoverheadpowerline,butaphone

wouldbeimpossiblewithoutservice;thephoneneedsaspecificID,knownandmaintained by the phone company, or it would be impossible to connect anycalls.Even thedial tonewouldbe impossible. Imove thephoneandopen theboxbeneath,hopingforsomekindofclue,butit’sempty.Istareatthephoneinthedark.It’smylinktothetruth—whoeversetitupisapartofthis,andtheysetitupforme.WereTheyusingit towatchme?WasIusingit tocallThem,orsomeoneelse?WhowouldIevencall?Notthepolice,notmyjob,certainlynotmy father. I probablycalledLucy,but Ididn’tneedaworkingphone for that.MaybeIneverusedthephoneatall.Ring!Istareatthephone,dullandroundedinthedarkroom.WhowillIhear?What

willitmean?Ring!Itdoesn’tmatterwhoitis;thisiswhyI’mhere.ThisiseverythingI’vebeen

tryingtodo.Thisphone.Ring!Ipickitup.“Hello?”“Michael, thankgoodness you’re there.We’ve been looking everywhere for

you.”Istareatthephoneinshock,myjawhangingopen,thenslowlyputitbackto

myear.“Dr.Vanek?”

TWENTY-FOUR

DR.VANEK’SVOICEISURGENTandagitated.“Ididn’tknowifyou’dfind the house or not; I didn’t think your memory had come back yet. Stayhidden,I’llberightthere.”“Wait,wait,”Isayquickly,mymindstill tryingtocatchup.“Whathouseis

this?HowdidyouknowI’dbehere?”“Itoldyoutogothere.”“No,Imeanyou:howdidyouknowI’dbeinthishouse?Howdoyoueven

knowthephonenumber?”“Michael,”hesays,thenstops.“Areyousaying…”Hestopsagain.“Areyou

sayingyoustilldon’tremember?”“Rememberwhat?”“Remember everything!” he shouts. “The house, the signals, the Faceless

Men.Howdidyoufindthehouseifyoudon’tremember?”“Igotitfromthereporter.”“Ithoughtshewouldn’ttalktoyou.Ineedyoutofigurethisoutonyourown,

Michael,that’swhyIwouldn’thelpyou.”“Iconvincedher,”Isay,tryingtothink—tryingtoforcemyselftofigurethis

out.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?What’sgoingon?”“Youreallydon’t rememberanything,doyou?”Hegrunts.“Nowonderyou

attackedNikolai.”“Nikolai?”Ifrown,thennodasrecognitiondawns.“YoumeanNickthenight

janitor?”“Hewastryingtohelpyou!”“HewasoneofThem,Vanek!Hedidn’thaveaface!”“And in your idiot paranoia you assumed that meant he was evil. He was

tryingtohelpyou!”“Heattackedme.”“Didhe?”asksVanek.“Didhepulloutagun,oraknife,oravicious,killer

cellphone?Didhepunchyouorkickyou?”“Heranstraightatme.”“Atyouortowardyou?There’sabigdifference.”“I…”Mymouthmovesmechanically,searchingforwords.“I…”Iclenchmy

teeth,determinednottolethimcloudthefacts.“Hewastryingtokillme.”“Hewas trying to rescue you,” saysVanek, “though hewas apparently too

muchofanidiottopullitoff.”“Nobodyrescuedme,”Isay.“Iescaped—IsawhimwithnofaceandIran.”“AndIsupposeyouthinkyoudiditallonyourown.”“Nobodyelsewasthere!”“Exactly,”hesays.“Thatdidn’tseemoddtoyou?Howlongwereyouthere,

movinghisbodyandstealinghisclothes,andnobodywalkedinonyou?Wherewas the guard?Where were the security cameras? Even the night nurse wasunconscious!”“Thatwas…”Idon’tknowwhatitwas.“Nikolai and the others prepared theway to help you escape the hospital,”

says Vanek, “but you escaped from everyone and now you’re loose. Andapparentlyverydangerous.”“He didn’t helpme,” I say firmly. “I don’t knowwhere the guardwas, but

therewerestillpeoplethere—thenursewasstillthere.”“Which is probablywhyNick ran toward you—to keep you from shouting

and attracting her attention. How were we supposed to know you’d kill himfirst?Wethoughtyou’dremembered!”“But…whywouldtheFacelessMenbetryingtohelpme?”“Think,Michael!Why can you see the FacelessMen and no one else can?

WhydidtheFBItrytointerrogateyou?”“Hewasn’tinterrogatingme,hewas…askingmequestions.It’sdifferent.”“Whydidthedoctorgiveyousomanypills?”“Idon’tknow.”“Whydid they try to give you anMRI every time you got too close to the

truth?”“Idon’tknow!”“Come on,Michael, put it all together! The FacelessMen are helping you

becauseyou’reoneofthem.”Istaggerback,stumblingoverthebaseofthephone.“That’snottrue.”“Dammit,Michael,youhavetorememberthis!”Itcan’tbetrue—itcan’tbetrue.Ilookaround,asifthewallsholdsomekind

ofanswerorescape,butthere’snothing;justwalls,closingmein,trappingme.IfeellikeIcan’tbreathe,likemylungsarebeingsqueezedtonothinginsidemychest.Ibackupagain,pullingthephonefarther,anditdragsthecordoutofthedarkholeofthecloset.It’snotconnectedtoanything.“Michael,”saysVanekcalmly,“staywhereyouare—I’mcomingrightover.

I’m sorry you had to hear it thisway, butwe thought you already knew—wethought you’d remembered. How did you find the house if you couldn’tremember?”Ipullon thecord,pullingandpullinguntil Ihold theplug inmyhand. It’s

rightthere,justhangingintheair.“Ifyouseeanyoneelsewithoutaface,Michael,pleaseshowsomerestraint.

Don’tkillanyone!”“You’renotreal.”“OfcourseI’mreal.”“Thisphone’snotpluggedin,”Isay,walkingtotheopenclosetandfeelingin

thedarkforaphonejack.There’snothingthere—it’snotconnectedtoanything,anditneverwas.“Thisphonedoesn’twork,whichmeansthisentirethingisallinmyhead.”Istandup.“You’reahallucination.”“JustbecauseI’minyourheaddoesn’tmeanI’mnotreal—”Idropthephoneandrunoutside;thenightisclearandcold,thestarsshining

faintly throughachokinghazeofcity light. I race tomycar,unlocking it inarush,runninginablindpanic.Ishovethekeyintotheignition;theengineroarstolife,cracklingmyfeetwithitsmagnetics.Myfather’scellphoneringsandIshout, startled. I hold upmy hands toward off the pain but there’s none; thesignaldoesn’thurt.Thephonehasnobatteries.

Vanek’scallingmeback.The phone rings again, loud and strident, and I throw it out the window. I

don’tcareifVanekstillwantstotalk:I’mnotlistening.Igetlostonthewayoutoftheemptyneigborhood,justforaminute,butsoon

Ifindtheexitandpulloutontothestreet,followingthesignsforHighway34.Ineed to get out of here—I need to go and never come back. I take anotherKlonopin, just incase. Ineedsomethingstronger—something toget ridof thehallucinationsforever.ThefreewayrampcurvesupandawayfromthestreetandIfollowit,thecityspreadingoutbelowmelikeaskyfullofshadows,thestarsbelowbrighterthantheonesabove.“I don’t have to use the phone, you know,” saysVanek.He’s sitting in the

passengerseat, rightnext tome,and Ialmost losecontrolof thecar. I swervebackintotheslowlane,myhandsgrippingthewheelinterror.“Goaway!You’renotreal!”“AsIwas trying to tellyou,Michael, justbecauseI’minyourheaddoesn’t

meanI’mnotreal.”“Lucysaidthesamething.”His voice is hard. “Lucy can fend for herself: she’s a pure delusion, and a

flimsy,sophomoriconeatthat.I’mreal.”“You’renotreal.”“Stopsaying that!”he roars.“I’vebeen inyour imbecilehead foryears, for

yourentire life, andasuselessas that life is I’mnotgoing to letyou throw itaway.I’mgoingtomakesomethingoutofyouifitkillsusboth.”“Makesomething?Makewhat?”“Makewhat?”He throws up his hands. “What do you think? I’m going to

makeme,ofcourse.You’reapatheticwaste,Michael:aperfect,healthybodywrappedaroundamindtoobrokentomakeanyworthwhileuseofit.I,ontheotherhand,amabrilliantmindwithnobodyatall.ThinkwhatIcoulddowithyours.”“That’s…” I can feelmyself trembling,my chest andmy armsvibrating so

strongly it’s like the tardive dyskinesia all over again. Displaced by my ownmind.“That’snotpossible.”“The greatest obstacle to any invading force is the outerwall,” saysVanek

lowly.“Youeitherbatteritdownoryouwaititoutinanendlesssiege,butI’malreadyinside;I’malreadypastthewallandrunningthroughthestreets,burningandslaughteringas Igo.Theonly thingstandingbetweenmeandyou isyourmind, Michael, and quite frankly it’s not up to the task. It’s weak and it’shelpless—it can’t even tell the difference between the truth and its own lies.Therewillbenoreinforcements,Michael.Therewillbenocavalrytosavetheday.It’sjustyouandme.”“Don’tlistentohim,Michael.”It’sLucy’svoice,fromthebackseat,andonce

againI’msostartledIalmostswerveintothesidewallofthefreeway.“Oh,please,”saysVanek,grumblinglowinhisthroat.I wrestle the car back under control and glance overmy shoulder; Lucy is

sittinginthebackseat,smilingkindly.“I’llalwaysbehereforyou,Michael.Wecanfighthimtogether.”“Idon’thavetimeforthis,”saysVanek.“You’reavapidHollywoodfantasy

of theworstkind—you’re themost implausibledelusionhehas,andhe thinkshiswaterheater’stryingtokillhim!”“Don’tlistentohim,Michael—Iloveyou!”“You’reanadolescentpipedream,”Vaneksnarls,thenhepointsatme:“And

you’re a narcissistic idiot, proclaiming love to yourself through your ownhallucination.It’sembarrassing.”“And what about you?” I say, trying to think of something—anything—to

counterhim.“Whatdoesyourexistencesayaboutme?ThatIhatemyself?ThatI’mafat,tactlessjerklikeyou?”Hesmiles;histeethgleamwickedly,flashinginandoutofviewaswespeed

pastgiant freewaystreetlights.“WhatdoIsignify?I’mherebecauseyouhavepotential,Michael.You createdLucy because youwanted to escape your life,butI’mherebecauseyouwanttochangeit.I’mapsychiatristdeterminedtocureyou;I’mtheunflaggingvoiceofimprovement,alwaysurgingyoutoaimhigherthanyouare.Iexistbecauseyouknowyoucanbemorethanyourself.”“Don’tlistentohim,Michael,”saysLucysoftly.“Hedoesn’twanttoimprove

you,hewantstousurpyou.Achangeinhisstoryisjustachangeinhisstrategy—anewtactictomakeyoudropyourguard.”Vaneklaughs.“Oh,she’sgood,Michael—she’sverygood.Whyisitthatyour

hallucinationsaresomuchsmarterthanyouare?”“You’reallapartofme,”Isay.“You’reonlysmartbecausemymindmakes

youthatway.”“Then we’re using your mind more effectively than you are,” says Vanek,

“andyoushouldjustgiveitovertousandbedonewithit.”“Ithoughtyouweregoingtotakeitbyforce?”“Wouldn’tyouratherdoittheeasyway?”“No,”saysLucy, leaningforward,“you’reright,Michael.Hecan’t takeyou

byforcebecausehe’strapped,justlikeIam.Hecan’tdoorknoworbeanythingwithoutyoudoingitorknowingitfirst.”IglanceatVanek,whoshakeshisheadandsmileswickedly.“Inthepastfew

monthsalone,”hesays,“howmanytimesdidIshooawayanotherpatient?HowmanytimesdidIcallforanurse,oraskyourdoctorsaquestion?EitherIhavemyownbody,orIcancontrolyours.Whichismorelikely,doyouthink,foramanwho can talk on dead phones and appear ex nihilo in the front seat of amovingcar?”“Youcan’tcontrolme.”“ThenhowcanIdo this?”Hereachesoverandshifts thecar into lowgear;

theengine lurchesand roars, slowingabruptly. I swathishandawayandshiftback,hittingthegastogetbackuptospeed.We’renearingtheoutskirtsofthecity.Vanekfoldshisarms.“Wasthatmyhandonthelever,oryours?Doyousee

nowhowyourperceptionsarefoolingyou?”“Dr.Littleknewaboutyou,”Isay.“Hehatedyou.”“HeknewyoutalkedtoanimaginarymannamedDr.AmbroseVanek,”says

Vanek, nodding. “I was exactly what he was trying to cure you of—whywouldn’thehateme?”“YouprescribedKlonopin foryears,” I say, shakingmyhead.“Youhavean

officeonCiceroAvenue.I’vetalkedtoyoursecretary—isshefaketoo?”“Surgically enhanced,maybe, but real in every other sense.”Dr.Vanek sits

backinhisseat,smuglycomfortable.“Whatyoucontinuetoforget,Michael,isthat you perceive the world through a schizophrenic filter: every sight, everysound, every smell you experience is amixture of real stimuli and your own

mentalconstructions.Ifsomeoneistalkingtoyou,andyourbraintellsyouit’sme,you’llseeme.It’sassimpleasthat.”“That—”Istareathim,thenreachintothebackseatformybackpack,holding

thewheelwithonehand.Ipulloutthebag,openit,andgrababottleofpills.Isquintatthelabel,holdingitclosetomyeyes,butit’stoodarktoread.IglareatVanekagain;heraiseshiseyebrow.Iturnontheceilinglightandreadthelabel:DR.LITTLE.IlookatVanek,thenbackatthelabel.Ifeelenraged.“Isthisbottlefaketoo?”

I throw itat thewindshield,and itbouncesdown to the floorbyVanek’s feet.“HowamIsupposedtoknowanything?”“Youthinkyou’re theonlyonewithproblems?”heasks.“Lucywasright—

we’re as trapped by your skewed reality as you are. You think your owndelusionsarebad,trylivinginsomebodyelse’sandtellmehowmuchyoulikeit.”Istareathimamoment,thenlookbackattheroad.Ishakemyheadagain.“I

don’thavetoseeyou.Idon’thavetohearyou.You’renotreal.”Vanek takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Not this,Michael;we don’t

havetime.”“One,two,three,four,five,six—”“YouthinkDr.Jones’sridiculousmethodsaregoingtowork?”“—seven,eight,nine,ten,eleven—”“Isthissupposedtobesomekindofpsychobabbleexorcism?Youspeakthe

saintedwordsandbanishmeintonothingness?”“—twelve,thirteen,fourteen,fifteen,sixteen—”There’safourthsilhouetteintherearviewmirror,aflatblackoutlineofaman

inashort-brimmedhat.There’sonlyonethingitcouldbe.Iclosemyeyes,forjust a fraction of a second; I glance in the mirror and it’s still there. I starestraight ahead, watching the road. We’re leaving the city behind, now, thehighwaydroppingbacktogroundlevel.“There’samaninthebackseat,”saysLucysoftly.“Iknow.”“Hedoesn’thaveaface.”Ibreathein,longandslow,thenpuffitbackout.“Iknow.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“THEFACELESSMENAREREAL,”saysVanek.Iignorehim,watchingtheroad.“Notthisone,ofcourse,andnotthebriefglimpseofthedrugdealeryoushot.

They’rejustasimaginaryasLucyis.”“Asimaginaryasyou,”saysLucyfiercely.Vanekchuckles.“Ifthatmakesyoufeelbetter.”Iignorehim,tryingtonamethestatesinalphabeticalorder.Alabama,Alaska,

Arizona,Arkansas…California…Connecticut…“YouforgotColorado,”saysVanek.“ButasIwassaying,thisoneisfake,but

theFacelessMendoexist.”Itrytoclearmymind,tomakeitasemptyasIcan.“They’refollowingyou,Michael,”saysVanek.“They’retryingtohelpyou.”

Helooksatmefirmly.“Youare,asIsaid,oneofthem.”“That’snottrue.”“Ah,soyou’reacknowledgingmenow?”I say nothing. I think of nothing. It’s harder than I expected. I should have

takenmeditationclassesorsomething.“I didn’t really figure it out until you killedNick,” saysVanek. “Itwas the

first timewesawoneupclose—theblureffect iswhatdid it.Yousee,nooneelsesawanythingwrongwithNick’sface—hewasjustanotherjanitor—butyouweredifferent.Yousawwhatnooneelsecould.”“It’scalledschizophrenia,”Ihiss.“You’retheonewhodiagnosedit.”“Oh,thatcertainlyaccountsfortherestofyourvisualdistortions,butnotthis

one.Youwereondrugs,andonebyoneeveryhallucinationdroppedaway.AndyetyoustillsawaformlessbluroverNick’sface.”

“Isawyouthesamemorning,”Isay.“Obviouslythedrugsweren’tworking.”“IalreadytoldyouthatI’mreal.”“I’ve had enough of this,” says Lucy, leaning forward. “Michael, can’t you

just…thinkhimaway?”“I’mtrying!”“Haveyouevertriedtonotthinkaboutsomething?”asksVanek.“It’sharder

than he expected.”He looks atme. “You should have taken somemeditationclassesorsomething.”“Just shutup,allofyou!” I look in themirrorat thedarksilhouette. “What

aboutyou—don’tyouhaveanythingtosay?”Thefiguresaysnothing,holdingupasinglefinger.“Onething?What?”Itshakesitshead,turnsitshand,andpointstowardthebackofthecar.Ilook

closerandIseeit:blueandredlights,farbackinthedistance.“Police.”Ispeedup.“Aretheycomingforus?”Thesilhouettenods.“They’regettingcloser,”saysLucy,callingoverhershoulderasshelooksout

thebackwindow.“Theymustreallybemovingfast.”“Thenweneedtomovefaster,”Isay,pressingdownonthepedal.Icanhear

thesirensnow.“Cantheytrackus?”Thesilhouetteshakesitshead.“They found us somehow,” says Vanek, gripping the armrest as I swerve

aroundatruck.“Areyousurethiscarisn’tbugged?”“Why would anyone bug my father’s car?” I shake my head, growling in

frustration and smacking the steeringwheelwithmy hand. “My father tippedthemoff.Hemusthave—heonlygavemehiscarbecauseheknewhe’dgetitrightbackagain.Heprobablyreporteditstolenandtoldthepolicewheretofindme.”We’ve reached the farmland now, hurtling past fields and fences and long

rowsofwind-breakingtrees.“Myfather’sbeentryingtogetridofmeforyears.Whydidn’tIthinkofthatwhenItookthecar?”“You’renotparanoidenough,”saysVanek.“I’monanxietymedication!”Ishout.“I’msupposedtobelessparanoid!”

“Letmeout,”saysLucy,eyeswide.“I’lldistractthem.”“Theycan’tseeyou!”“Itworkedlasttime.”Vanekshakeshishead.“ItworkedlasttimebecausethedriverssawMichael

looking at something and mirrored his reaction. It’s a social instinct: if onehuman looks at something, every other human in the areawill assume there’ssomethingtheretosee.”“Thatdoesn’thelpusnow,”Isay,“sojustshutupandletmethink.”“Ustalkingisyouthinking,”saysVanek.“They’realmostonus,”saysLucy.Ilookinthewindowandseethreepolice

cars,maybe twohundredyardsbehindus, lights flashingand sirensblazing. Icockmyhead,thinking,andstarttoslow.“Dosomething,”saysVanek,lookingatmesternly.“There’salwaysthechance,”Isay,“thatthey’renotrealeither.ThelastcopsI

sawweren’t.Icouldbehavingthisentirechaseinsidemyownhead—forallIknowI’mstillatPowell,lostinadreamingcoma.”“Youwanttotakethatchance?”asksVanek.Hegripsthearmresttighter.“NoIdon’t,”Isay.“That’swhyIbroughtushere.”Theheadlightsshineonasmallwhitesignwiththesingleword:CERNY.Isee

theturnoffjust intime—abreakinthefenceandanarrowdirtroad.Ishutoffthelightsandslamonthebrakes,slowingdownjustintimetoswerveintothegap.Thecarskidsonthegravel,slidingtothesideandsprayingrocksbackontothehighway,butIstraightenoutandguntheengine.“Whatareyoudoing?”Lucycries.“I’mgoingtotheChildrenoftheEarth,”Isay,slammingdownthegaspedal.

“Agent Leonard said they’re still on Cerny’s farm, and Kelly said they’reuntouchable.IfIcangetinsidethecompoundthepolicecan’tfollowusin,andIcanfinallyfindthetruthbehindthiswholeinsanemess.”“You’redrivingtoofast.”Theroadislinedwithafenceoneachside,makingitrelativelyeasytosteer

down the center, but I can’t see to avoid any pot holes and the car bouncespainfullyoverthedirtroad.Redlightsflashinthemirror.“Shuttingoffthelightsdidn’twork,”saysVanek.“They’restillfollowingus.”

I push the engineharder, listening to the transmission screamas I press thepedal to the floor.Thecarbounceswildly, shaking itself apart.Thepolice arepracticallyontopofus.“Icanstopthem,”saysVanek.“Iwon’tletyou.”“Idon’tneedyourpermission,”hesayscoldly,“butthisneedstohappenright

now,righthere,andit’sgoingtohurtalotmoreifyoufightme.”“I’mnotgivingyoucontrol!”“Fine,”hesays,andcloseshiseyes.Thecarisrattlingandslidingonthedirt

road,cornandfencepostswhippingpastinabluroneitherside.Vanekfrowns,furrowinghisbrow;hegrimaces.Ifeelanintensepaininmyhead,growinginsecondstoacrushingmigraine.“Whatareyoudoing?”Andthenthere’sabrilliantflashoflightandaspeedingrippleofmovement,

likeaheatdistortionintheairspreadingoutinalldirections.Theenginestopsinstantly,grindingandcatchingandwrenchingthewheelfrommyhands;thecarspinstotheleftandslamsusthroughthethinwoodenfenceonthesideoftheroad.Theplanksshatterandflyandthemomentumflips thecarover. Ihearadeafeningbangandsomethingslamsintomyface.I stare at the darkness, ears ringing. I think I’m right-side up. The car is

surroundedbydimshapes, thinbarscrowdingclosearoundme.Corn stalks. Ishakemyhead,tryingtoclearit.Iseeothercarsaroundandbehindus,strewnthroughthecorninachaosof

destruction. The lights are gone, the engines are dead.My ears begin to ring,slowly regaining sensation after the shock of the crash, but there’s nothing tohear.Thesirensandsquealingtiresaregone.“Whatdidyoudo?”Firmhandsgrabmyarm,unlatchmyseatbelt,andpullmefromthecar;acop,

Iassume,butwhenIlookaroundthere’snobodythere.Nooneisnearme,andnoonehasgottenoutoftheothercars.ItmusthavebeenLucywhopulledmeout,orVanek,butnowbotharegone.Forafewbriefseconds,I’malone.Thenearestcopcarisrightsideup,butthewindshieldiscrackedandbloody.

I stumble toward it, peering through thewindow; the copbehind thewheel isdead,hisheadsmashedandbloody. In thepassenger seat is theFBIguy frombefore,AgentLeonard,hisfacestuddedwithbrokenglassandhisnecktiltedata horrifying angle.Whydidn’t the airbagswork?Whatever killed the enginesmusthavekilledthemaswell.Itwastheflashoflight.Iturnagain,lookingwildlyforVanek.“Whatdidyoudo?”Ihearmovement—aclickandacough.Oneoftheoverturnedcarsistryingto

openitsdoor.Irunintothecorn.Themoonlightisdim,andthecornmakesitevendarker.Irundowntherow,

away from the cops, then cut across several rows and start running again. Aflashlightshinesbehindme,firstoneandthenanother,thenanother,butI’mtoofarawaytobecaughtinthebeams.Ican’tseewhereIamorwhereI’mgoing,butthepathisclearandIrunasfastasIcan,racingtotheendoftherow.Icansee it now, a gap in the corn just slightly lighter than the tunnel I’m runningthrough.Ispeedup,hearingshoutsandcriesfrombehind.Ireachtheedgeandstumbledownthesteepsideofahill, losingmybalanceandfalling, rolling tothebottom.MyleghitssomethingsolidandIcryoutinpain.Iwince,facedowninthecoldmud,andstruggletorightmyself.“Don’tmove.”I freeze.Howdid thepolicegethere that fast? Itdoesn’tmakesense—they

weretoofarbehindme.Itrytostaycalm.“Whoareyou?”“I’mtheonewiththerifle,son.Whoareyou?”Afarmer,then.Imustbeonhisproperty;Ilooktothesideandseeafence—

that’swhatIhitwithmyleg.Thefencearoundhiscrops,oraroundhishome?“I’mnotaburglar,”Isay.“I’mnotheretotakeanythingorhurtanyone.I’mjustpassingthroughonmywaytoanotherfarm.”“Passingthroughwithaswarmofpolicerightbehindyou,”hesays.“Iswear,

meatbag,ifyou’reheretokillusIwillputyoudownrighthere—”“Killyou?”Ishakemyhead,staringdowninto themud.“WhywouldIkill

anyone?”“Weare law-abidingcitizens,”hesays.“Wewillnotbebullied,andwewill

turnyouovertothepolice.Nowstandup.”“‘We?’” Icanhear thepolicegettingcloser; I rise tomyfeet,andIcansee

faint flashesof light from the corn at the topof thehill.They’re almost here.“It’syou,isn’tit?TheChildrenoftheEarth?”I stop, half-turned, frozen in shock. I can see the farmernow: jeans, a dark

coat,andahat.Hisfaceisablankvoid.Helowershisrifleinsurprise.“Is…isitreallyyou?”“Yourecognizeme?”“Itisyou!Afterallthistime,you’vefinallycomeback!”I’vemade it.He reaches out, grippingmy shoulder, and his touch brings a

crackleofelectricity,painlessandoddlyfamiliar.“You’refinallyhomeagain.”Heturnshishead,andIcanseetheairarounditrippleanddistort.“Peter!Callthecounciltogether!”Helooksbackatme.“TellthemDr.Vanekhasreturned!”Itakeastepback,myhopesshatteredinconfusion.“Who?”Helooksatmesharply.“AmbroseVanek.Itisyou,isn’tit?”Thiscan’tbepossible.Itouchmyface—it’sstillthere.Thefeaturesfeellike

mine.WhatwillthefarmerdoifIsayI’msomeoneelse?Hestillhashisrifle.Itakeanotherstepback,butthepolicearegettingcloser;theirvoicesareloudernow,andtheirlightsarebrighter,nearlyattheedgeofthefield.Ilookbackatthefacelessfarmer.“Howdoyouknowme?”He leans in closer. “You’re still not… all there? Do you have full control

yet?”Incontrol?That’sexactlywhatVaneksaidinthecar—thathewantedtotake

overandcontrolmybody.It’spossible—it’slikely,even—thatthisisallinmyhead.Thatmymindhas

constructedthisentirescenariooutofthinair,takingVanek’simpossibleravingsandweaving themtogether intoasenselessyetconsistentwhole. Ican’t tell ifit’s real or not because I have no anchor—no outside perspective to givemecontext.WhatwouldIgiveifthiswerejustabaddream?IfIcouldjustwakeupinmyroomatPowellandeatsomemoreoatmealandplaywithLinda’spretendcashregisterandgobacktothelifeIhad.Itwasawful,andIhatedit,butitwasmine,andIunderstoodit,andwithenoughtherapyanddrugsitwouldhavebeenmineforever.Asingle,consistentrealitywithnomonsters,nomurders,andnoconspiracy.WhatIwouldn’tgive.Iwon’trunawayanymore.Icameheretofindanswers.Let’sgofindthem.

Inodat the farmer. “I remembermostof it. I’vecomebackbecause Ineedyourhelp.Canyouprotectme?”“Ofcourse,”hesays,pullingmetowardthefence.“Hurry—theycan’tcome

through without a warrant. This is so exciting, Doctor! You must see thecompound—we’veaccomplishedsomuch!”Somuch.It’sastatementofchange;theythinkI’vebeenherebefore.Isthis

whatVanekwastalkingabout—thetwolostweekshewasdesperateformetoremember?What if Vanek did take over, just like he’d threatened to, and hecamehereandintroducedmeashim?Thatcouldexplainwhythey’recallingmebyhisname.Thenwhen thepolice foundmewe jumpedout thewindow,andtheygavemeanMRIandaccidentallywipedVanekbackout.TheMRIputmeinchargeagain.Couldthatbeit?Isthatevenpossible?Ismileatthefarmerasweclimbthefence;theothersideislinedtightlywith

tall,leafytrees.“You’veaccomplishedsomuchinjustafewmonths?”Hestopsinsurprise,cockinghisheadtotheside.“Afewmonths?”NowI’mevenmoresurprised.“Wasn’tIjusthereafewmonthsago?”“Isupposeitmayhaveseemedliketwomonths,trappedasyouwere,butit’s

farmore.”Iknowhowlongit’sbeen.AssoonashesaysitIknow,butIaskhimanyway.

“Howlong?”Idreadtheanswer.“Twentyyears.”Twenty years. He’s not talking about a recent visit, he’s talking about me,

about Michael Shipman. This is the farm where Milos Cerny lived—this iswheremymotherwaskidnappedandmurdered.ThisiswhereIwasborn.HethinksI’vebeenVaneksincebeforeIwasevenme.“Showme,” I say. “Showme everything.” Iwas right. They put something

intome—theyputVanek intome—and for twentyyears they’vebeenwaitingfor him to take control. It happened to the others, and now it’s happening tomore, and I was saved by… by schizophrenia. A chemical imbalance inmybrain.It’salmostfunny.HowbigistheirPlan?Howmanymorepeoplewilltheytakeover—andwhat,

exactly,istakingusover?WhatisDr.Vanek?Whateveritis,whateverthey’redoing,Ineedtofinditandstopit.

“Quick,”hesays,“they’realmosthere.”Iclimbdownthefenceandanotherman meets me—his face another blank mask. “Take him to Ellie,” says thefarmer.“I’llholdthepolicehere.”“Comewithme,Doctor,”saystheman,puttingahandonmyarm.Ifeelthat

strangefamiliarbuzzathistouch.“MynameisPeter.Elliewillbesopleasedtoseeyou.”Heleadsmecarefullythroughasmallcopseoftrees,holdingbranchesasideformetopass.BehindmeIhearaterseshout.“You!Whojustcrossedthisfence?”“This is private property,” says the farmer calmly, “owned and lawfully

operatedbytheChildrenoftheEarth.Youcannotenter.”“We’re looking for someone,” says the policeman. “We think he came this

way.”“There’snobodyhereexceptourbrothersandsistersofthefaith.”“Thenoneofyourbrothersisawantedfugitive!”“I’mafraidIdon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”“We’llgetawarrant,”saysanothervoice.“We’llbeback.”The voices fade, andPeter and I break through the trees into the commune

beyond: row after rowof houses—not barracks or cabins but real houses—allplainanddarkandidentical.Thewindowsaredark,theyardsarevacant;thereare no lights or sounds. It looks like a vast, empty suburb transplanted to themiddleofacountryfield.Anotherhollowcity.

TWENTY-SIX

WEWALKBETWEENTHEHOUSES, kicking up clouds of dustwithourfeet.Thereisnopavementorgrass.ItfeelslikeanoldWesternghosttownfilledwithmoderntracthousing,andaswewalkIbegintoseethem—facelesspeopleinmismatchedclothes,lockedinaroteimitationofsuburbanlife.Amanpushes a lawnmower across a barren patch of dirt. Twowomen stand facingeachother,holdingemptybrownbagsfromagrocerystore.Achildbouncesaball,upanddown,upanddown,andbeyondhimanotherchilddoesthesame.Thereisnotalking;therearenolights.Itisthetrappingsoflifeinapale,lifelessbody.“Whatisthisplace?”Peternods.“Yourpredictionswereright,Doctor:wehavefounditimpossible

to integrate ourselves back into societywithout social therapy.Many of themhaveneverlivedontheoutside—yourplanhasprovenhighlyeffective.Withoutall of this,” he gestures at the houses and yards and people, “we could neverhopetoleadnormallives.”“You’redoingsocialtherapy?”“Thankstoyou,”hesays.“Inanothergeneration,perhaps,yourplanwillhave

succeededandwewillhavenomoreneedforthese—ah,here’sEllienow.”“Wait,what?”“Ellie!”shoutsPeter.“Comequickly!Lookwho’sreturnedtous!”AnoldwomanturnsandIalmostcryout:Lucy!Butit’snotLucy;shehasno

face,andherlong,brownhairshimmerssilverandwhiteinthemoonlight.Shelooksatmeforamoment,thenshoutswithjoyandshufflestowardus.HowdoIknow her? “Ambrose!” It’s Lucy’s voice. She takesme by the shoulders andpullsmeintoanembrace;herbodyhumslikeagenerator,andthoughIcan’tsee

her face I can feel something—not happiness, but something like it. Pleasure,maybe,orsatisfaction,butjoyless.Itisthepleasureofasuccessfulcalculation,coldandinert.Shepullsawayandthefeelingdisappears.“Ambrose,”shesays,thenpauses.“You’reconfused.”Don’tletherknow.“It’sbeenalongtime.”“Ithas.ThanktheEarththatyou’vereturnedtous.”Inod.“Thank…theEarth.”“It’sbeentoolong,infact,andwehadnearlygivenuphopethatyouwould

ever come back. Then when Nikolai died and you disappeared, naturally wefeared theworst.”Sheputsahandonmyarmand turns toPeter.“Thankyou,brother;callthecounciltogether.They’llallwanttoseehim.”“Ofcourse.”Peterjogsaway,andEllieleadsmefartherdowntheroad.“Wehadsuchhigh

hopesforPowell,”shesays.“Theirworkwithyouwasmorecompletethanwe’deverbeenabletodoonourown,andthereportswereimmaculate.Wecouldn’thavedonebetterwithourowndoctors.”I speak carefully. “None of the doctors were … ours?” I need more

information,butI’mterrifiedofgivinganythingaway.Whoknowswhatthey’lldoiftheyfindoutI’mnotVanek?OramI?“We had a security guard,” says Ellie, “and a janitor. The janitor tried to

extractyou,buthe’s…”Shehangsherhead.“Lost.Thehospitalisblamingitonyou,naturally, but ourman in theguard room turnedoff the cameras and I’mafraidnobodyknowsexactlyhowhedied.Weassumehegothim.”Ilookatherquizzically.“‘He’?”“TheRedLineKiller. Idon’tknowhowmuchyou’veheardofhim, locked

away like that, but he’s hunting us. He’s already killed fifteen, all lost.” Shestopswalking,worried.“Wedon’tknowhowmuchheknows.”TheRedLinemurdersagain.Butherstorydoesn’tagreewiththeFBI’s.“You

said fifteen victims.” She nods. “The agent from the FBI toldme there wereten.”“Therewere five theynever found,” she says. “Wewereable to reach them

before anyone else, and hide the bodies here. Obviously we want as little

investigationaspossible.”“Obviously.”Shedoesn’tseemtothinkI’mthekiller,butIneedtodrawher

out.“TheFBIthinksyou’rebehindthekillings.”“Me?”sheasks.“All of you,” I say, glancing around. “Their current theory—if the man I

talked to can be believed—is that you’re killing the victims yourself. Cullingdissentersfromtheranksofthefaithful.”Shelaughs.“Didyoulaughinhisface?”Ofcourseit’saridiculousidea—therearenodissentersfromthecultbecause

theirmindsare literallybeing replaced.Nodissentersbutme. “Giveme somecredit,”Isay.“I’mmoresubtlethanthat.”“Iassureyou,Doctor,wehavenotdivergedsofarfromyourplansastostart

murderingourown.Thefleshisweak,astheysay,butwearestillitsmasters.”Inod, struggling tograsp theunderlyingmeaningofherwords.The flesh is

weak, butwe are still itsmasters. Is it generic religious dogma, or somethingmore?Ifthey’renotflesh,whatarethey?Ichangetactics.“Hasthekillerevercomehere?”“He’s tried,” says Ellie. “At least we think it was him. In thirty-odd years

we’ve had our share of angry parents and teenage pranksters and even somegarden-variety burglars try to break into the compound. There’s a couple ofdrunkinterloperseveryyearortwo.Threejournalistshavebeenfoolishenoughtotrytojoinus,thinkingtheycouldsendoutreports.”Shepointstoawomanbythe front door of a house, pretending to sweep with a long, broomless stick.“There’sthelatest.Iwishtheywereallthateasy.”Iwatch thewoman aswewalk past her, sweeping and sweeping, back and

forth.She’sbarelymorethanasilhouetteinthedark,butElliesteersmearoundthenextcornerandIcatchaquickglimpseofthewoman’sprofile.“She’spregnant.”Ellie nods. “Most of us are. Phase three of your plan has proven far more

successfulthantheothers.”Wecomearoundthecornerandshepointsatalargecentral building. “That’s the nursery, but there’s no time for a tour just yet.Please,comeinhere.”Shegesturestoalargehouse,asmallcrowdoffacelesssupplicants trickling in through the door. I take one look back at the large

building—thenursery,shecalledit.Anentirebuildingofchildren,bornherejustlikeme.Howmany?Howlonghasthisbeengoingon?Shesaysshe’lltakemeonatourlater;there’snoneedtomakeasceneabout

itnow.Ican’tdoanythingtomakethemsuspicious,ortheymightnotshowmeanything. I turn back to the stairs, andmy eyes slide across another house—smallerthantheothers,andolder.Asmall,squatfarmhouseinthemiddleofthisalready-incongruouscity.Istopinmid-step.“Iknowthathouse.”“What?”asksEllie.Shefollowsmygaze.“Ah,yes.TheHome.”“I’veseenthathouseinahundrednewspapersandtextbooks,”Isay,almostto

myself.“Thesamephoto,overandover.That’sMilosCerny’shouse.”“Cerny,”shesays,draggingoutthesoundsasifmullingthemover.Shesteps

closertome.“NotjustCerny,”shesaysslowly,“allofus.Youweretheretoo.”“Of course,” I say. I glance at her and see that she’s watching me—even

withouteyes,somehowIcantellthatherentireattentionisfocusedonme.“It’sjust thatCerny…”Idon’tknowhow to finish.Will I start crying?Will Igivemyselfaway?“How much do you really remember?” asks Ellie. “How much of you is

Vanek,andhowmuchisMichael?”I look at her in surprise; this is the first time anyone on the compound has

mentionedMichael.Ishakemyhead,takingmybestguessatwhatshewantstohear.“Michael’s gone,” I say, “but I’ve been in his head for years. Some things

havecertain…associations…thatIdon’talwaysfilterveryquicklyfromonemindtotheother.”Elliesaysnothing,watchingme.Ilookback,imaginingwherehereyeswould

be—Lucy’seyes,Ithink,butolderandsterner.Shestartstospeak,butanotherwomanplantsherselfbetweenus.“Dr.Vanek!Howwonderfulyou’vereturned!”Ismile.“It’sgoodtobeback.”Thewomanstandsexpectantly,waitingforsomething.“Don’tyourecognize

me?”

“I…”Idorecognizeher, thesamewayIrecognizedEllieandNikolai,butIcan’trememberhoworwhere.DoIsayyesandtrytofakeit?DoIusethesameexcuse about not quite getting all the memories back? Ellie seemed verysuspiciouswhenIsaidthatbefore.“I…it’sbeenalongtime.”“It’sArlene,”shesayswarmly,puttingahandonmyarm.“ArleneMiller. I

wasinthefirstgroup,withyou.”Thenameisfamiliar:inmymindIcanseeitinacrimereport;inanewspaper

article;onalistofnamesfromtheFBI.“Youwereoneoftheotherchildren,”Isay.“Youwerebornhere,like,”Ialmostsay“me,”“likeMichael,twentyyearsago.”Shehasnosmile,butIcantellshe’spleased—thesamelifelesspleasureIfelt

from Ellie. No, not lifeless; not completely. Arlene feels thingsmorewarmlythanElliedoes.“Comeinside,”saysEllie,pushingusgentlytowardthedoor.“It’stimeforthe

meetingtostart.”Iclimbthestairsandgoinside,shootingonelastglanceatCerny’soldhouse.

Howdo thesepeopleknowmesowell,andyetnotknowmeatall? Ihaven’tseen Arlene since we were three months old—there’s no way she couldrememberme, asMichael or asAmbroseVanek.Andyet shedoes.Whateverreplacedherrememberswhateverreplacedme.Thenwhydoesshestillhaveherownname?Theroomisfullofpeople,theirblankfacesblurringalmostimperceptiblyas

theywhisperandturntheirheads.Elliepushesmeintoabackcornerandpicksupalamp—notanelectriclightbutareal,oil-basedlamp.Amatchflarestolife,thebrightest thing I’veseensince Igothere,andshe lights thewickcarefullyandcapsitwithaglasstube.Theblankfacesfollowherasshewalkstothefrontoftheroom.“Idon’tlikeher,”whispersLucy.“Ithinkyouareher,”Iwhisperback,beingcarefulthatnooneoverhearsus.

“Ican’tseetheface,obviously,butthehairandthebodyareprettyexact,nottomentionthevoice,andthe…feeling.”“I’mnotthatold,”Lucyprotests.“Notnow,butyouwillbeinabouttwentyyears.I’mguessingshewashere

withCerny, helpingwith his abductions and hismurders and everything else.WhenIcreatedyou,Imusthavebasedyouonanoldmemoryfromthisplace.”“Whywouldyoudothat?”“Ihavenoidea.”Elliereachesthefrontoftheroom,setsthelamponatable,andaddressesthe

crowd.“Thankyouallforcoming.I’msureyou’veheardtherumors,sothere’snopointtryingtobuilduptoadramaticreveal:aftertwentyyears,Dr.Vanekhasreturnedtous.”GivenhowexcitedeveryoneseemstobeIexpectthemtocheerorapplaud—

somethingtoexpressemotion—buttheysimplyturnandlookatme,silentandwatching.Ismilenervously,nodding.Afteramomenttheyturnback,stillsilent,tolookatEllie.“Whodoyousupposesheis?”Iwhisper.“Shemightbeyourmother.”Ishakemyhead,suddenlyhotandangry.“Mymother’sdead.”“That’swhattheytoldyou,”saysLucy,“buthowdoyouknowforsure?You

werethreemonthsold.”Elliespeaksagain.“AsI’msureyou’reallaware,thedoctor’sreturnheraldsa

newageforus.Therewillbemanyblessings,buttherewillbeworkaswell.Wehavemuchtodo.”“ThepolicesaidthereweretwomothersleftalivewhentheyraidedCerny’s

house,”Isaysoftly.“Bothwomenwereshotduringtheraid.”“SowherewasEllie?”asksLucy.“Ihavenoidea.”Elliepointsatamaninthefirstrow.“Charles,sectionreports.”Themanstandsup.“Thecropsarestrong, theanimalsarehealthy,andfood

standsalesarestrong.Weexpecttheorchardtoproduceabumpercropthisyear,andwe’dliketoexpandtheoperationtostartmakingapplejuiceaswell.”“Andourmoney?”“TheChildrenarecompletelyself-sustaining.Withthethirdwellfinished,we

don’tneedthecity’swateranymore.”“Thenstopusingitimmediately,”saysEllie.“Iwanteveryoneofusdrinking

wellwaterexclusively,startingassoonaspossibletogetusinthehabit.Assign

someofthePhaseThreestofetchandcarry.”Iignorethewordsandfocusonhisface,musingquietlytoLucy.“Somehow

theblurisreplacingourfaces,”Isay,“justlikethemindbehindit isreplacingourminds.AllmylifeI’veseenthingsthatotherscouldn’tsee—anditwasrealallalong.”“That’swhyyousolveditwhennobodyelsecould,”saysLucy.“Youcansee

whattherestofuscan’t.”“Canyouseetheirfaces?”“Ionlyseewhatyoudo.”Ifighttheurgetolookather,stillkeepingmyvoicedown.“Whatdoyousee

whenyouseeme?”Lucydoesn’thave tohidehermovement likeIdo;shesteps infrontofme,

staringintomyeyes.“Amemory,Ithink.Yourownimageofyourself.”“ThenI’msorry.”Ilookdown.“Imustlookhorrible.”“It’snotthewayyoulooknow,”shesays,“it’sthewayyouwanttolook.You

createdmetoseethebestinyou.”Ilaugh—ashort,voicelesshuff.“Eventhebestcan’tbeallthatgreat.”Lucyputsahandonmyface,andIclosemyeyesattheachingsoftnessofher

fingersonmyskin.“You’rebetterthanyouthinkyouare,”shewhispers.“Phase Three is progressing well,” says the man at the front of the circle.

“Most of ourwomen are pregnant, and there have been nomiscarriages sinceAdrianne’sinMay.Wethinkshe’sreadytobesafelyimpregnatedagain.”“Good,”saysEllie.“Itrustyou’llassignoneoftheHalseys?”“Normallyyes,” themansays,“butwe’vegrownconcernedlatelyabout the

limited genetic variance we might be creating. I recommend we go withsomeonenew.”“Verywell,”saysEllie.“AndtheProcess?”“TheProcesscontinuesatfullcapacity,”saystheman.“Onemoregeneration,

maybetwo,andwewillallbeprotected.”“Excellent,”saysEllie.“ThenitistimetobeginPhaseFour.”Shelooksatme.

“We’ve waited so long for this—nearly fifty years, though it feels like evenmore.Atlastthetimehascome.Dr.Vanek,wouldyouliketodothehonors?”Igrowpale,andLucyclutchesmyarminterror.“Thehonors?”

“Yes,” she says. “It is your plan, after all, and now that you’ve returned itshouldbeyouwhopresentsit.Withonlyafewexceptionsthisisthefullcouncil—wewouldbe…thrilled…ifyouwouldcometothefrontandexplainPhaseFourindetail.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

ONCEAGAINTHEFACES turn to me, blank and impassionate. I stareback,tryingtothinkofwhattodo.IletgoofLucy’shand,afraidthatthey’dseethewaymyhandisshapedandputallthepiecestogether:he’sschizophrenic,hesees peoplewho aren’t there,we can’t trust him.WithoutLucy’s hand I don’tknowwhattodowithmyarms;Iholdthematmysides,toostifftobenatural.Ifoldthem;Iunfoldthem.“Doctor?” asks Ellie. She’s doing this on purpose—she’s testing me.How

muchdoeshe really know?Howmuchofhim isVanek,andhowmuch is stillMichael?IlookatLucy,eyesdesperate;Ican’ttalknowthateveryone’slookingatme.Ifshe’sinmymind,doIevenhaveto?Helpme.Shespreadsherhandsandshrugs.“Ican’t.Idon’tknowanythingaboutthis.”NeitherdoI.“No, you don’t,” says Lucy, “but he does.” She points, and I see Vanek

standingatthefrontoftheroom.Vanek. I lookathim,directingmy thoughtsandknowinghecanhear them.

Whatdidyoudointhecar?“We’lltalkaboutthatlater,”hesays.“They’rewaitingforyou.”I lean away from thewall, walking slowly toward the front to givemyself

timetothink.Iwon’tdothis.“Youhavetodothis,”saysVanek.“DoyouknowwhatPhaseFouris?”Idon’t. Iwalk slowly.PhaseThreehas something todowithbabies.Was I

partofPhaseThree?Butno;it’stoorecent.PetertalkedaboutitasifI’dneverseenitinaction.IwasapartofPhaseTwo,maybe,orevenOne.

“You were Phase Two,” says Vanek. I reach the front and turn to face thecrowd, flanked on each side by Ellie and Vanek. “They’re waiting,” he says.“Instructthem.”YouknowIcan’t.“Thenletmedoit.”Hissmileissmugandself-satisfied.That’sexactlywhatyouwant—tocontrolmymind.“Ifyousayno,”hesays,“you’reexposedasafraudandtheykillyounow.Or

worse.”“Doctor?”asksEllie.“Justamoment,”Isay.“I’m…figuringoutthebestwaytosaythis.”“Rememberthepoliceman,”saysLucy.“Hecantalkwithoutcontrollingyou.”HowdoIknowyouwon’texposeus?“Becauseifyoudie,Idie,”hesays.“Believeme,Michael—ifIcouldescape

youbykillingyou,you’dhavebeendeadlongago.”IstareatLucy,notdaringtolooktoeitherside.“Issomethingwrong?”asksEllie.“PhaseOnenearlykilledus,”saysVanek,addressingthecouncil.Theyturnto

face me, listening raptly. “Phase One taught us that imprinting ourselves onadultstooktoolong,incapacitatedustoothoroughly.We’reluckyweleftoneofthehumansempty,totakecareofthebodies,orwewouldhavestarvedtodeath.EliskaandImergedinthisphase,alongwithCernyandafewothers.”“One of the humans,” he said.What are they, if not human? I think of the

maggot, shiver, and push it out ofmymind. It has to be something else—themaggotsaren’treal.Theycan’tbe.“Theyknowallofthis,”saysEllie.“Allowmemymoment,” saysVanek. “I created this plan, I’mmore than a

little proudof it. Plus themore I talk themore I cementmy control over thisschizophrenicmeatbag.”Herollshisheadtotheside,glancingatmesidelong.“Theydidn’thearthatlastpart;thatwasjustforyou.”Youcan’tcontrolme.Icanbarelycontrolmyself.“PhaseTwowerethebabies,”saysVanek.“Themorewelearnedabouthuman

physiology the more we realized—well, the more I realized—that children’sbrainsweremoremalleable,moreopentothepatternsweneedtocreateinorder

tocontrolthem.TheProcesswouldtakelonger,buttheresultswouldbebetter,more complete.Most of the subjects in Phase Twowere new, but I joined inagain.Ithoughtanewer,betterlinkwouldbeworththetime.Youcan’timaginehowmanytimesI’veregrettedthatdecision.”“Butyou’reokaynow?”asksEllie.Inod,wrestlingcontrolbackfromVanek.“It’sjust…”WhatcanIsay?Lucy

smilesencouragementfromthebackoftheroom.“It’ssomuchtotakein,”Isay.“Ihaven’tbeenheresincePhaseTwo,andtoseehowfaryou’vecomewithoutmeis…it’samazing.”“That’sright,”saysVanek,“feedherego.”Nowtelltherest.“Youcanguesstherest,”hesays,speakingonlytome,“can’tyou?PhaseTwo

worked,intheory,butwewerecaught.Youpeoplegetsodefensivewhenyouryoungarethreatened,andCernyandsomeoftheothersendedupdead,thoughnot, apparently, Eliska. She was away from the farm, working on one of theexternal projects, and when the dust settled it was up to her to take the nextlogicalstep.”Ilookatthecouncil,attheaudiencefullofpregnantwomen.PhaseThreewas

impregnation, I think, looking at Vanek, but after Cerny you couldn’t stealbabiesanymore,soyouhadtomakeyourown.“Allpartoftheplan,”saysVanek.“Myplan,Ishouldsay,thoughmorethan

ablycarriedoutbyEllie.”AndthatmeansPhaseFouris…“Youstilldon’tknow,”saysVanek.“Allthosehints,andyoustillcan’tfigure

itout.”Helpme.“Doyouseenowhowyourelyonme?Howyoucan’tevenfunctionwithout

me?”“Don’tlistentohim,Michael,”saysLucy.“You’restrongerthanheis.”TellthemaboutPhaseFour.“No.”Ipause,stillresolutelyavoidingVanek’seyes.Whywon’tyoutellthem?“Imighteventually,butfirstIwanttowatchyousquirmalittle.Twistinthe

wind.”Ilookoverthecrowd.They’llfindmeout—onewrongwordoutofmymouth

and they’ll know I’m an impostor, and then I’ll be sweeping the floorwith astick like that journalist—back and forth, a mind as hollow as the houses. Ishouldhaveturnedandrun.Ishouldhavegonewiththepolice.Thepolice.That’showIcandothis.“I’vewaitedtoolongforthis,”Isay,tryingtokeepmyvoicecalm.“Twenty

years.But tonightwehave farmoreurgentconcerns todealwith.” IglanceatEllie. “I did not come here peacefully—men on the outside, the police, weretrying to catch me and detain me.When I crossed the fence and entered thecompound they said they’d returnwith awarrant.They’vewanted to come inhere sincewe bought the place, they’vewanted to look around and seewhatwe’re doing and put a stop to everything, but they’ve never had an excusebefore.I’mafraidI’vegiventhemthatexcuse.”Iexpectthemtostirandfidget,towhisperanxiouslywitheachother,butthey

merely nod, accepting my words. I glance at Ellie again, looking for herreaction;sheseemsbothered.Iwashopingmywarningwouldpasshertest,butdoessheknowImerelysidesteppedit?Whywouldshebesodisturbed?Vanekglowersatme,butstayssilent.“He’s right,” saysArlene. “If the police returnwith awarrant to search the

compound,they’llfindthenursery.They’llfindtheHome.Wecan’tallowittohappen.”Ellie’smooddarkens—Icanfeelitlikeanauraaroundher,sparkinginvisibly.

She’snotsuspiciousofme,she’sangry:IknowenoughofauthoritytorecognizeitshackleswhenIchallengeit.Vaneksaidtofeedherego,andhewasright;Iwasaleaderhere,orhewas,butwe’vebeengonetoolongandElliehastakenover.Evendeferringtomeasshedid,askingformetoexplainPhaseFour,wasa way of exerting control over the group—to show them that even Ellie cancommand the great Dr. Vanek. By changing the subject I’ve usurped herposition.Ineedtogiveitbacktoher.I step back and gesture to Ellie. “When I left, our group was smaller, and

twentyyearslaterIdon’tpresumetoknowhowbesttoleadit.Ellieistheexperthere.”

Shehesitatesamoment—justafractionofasecond,watchingme—thenstepsback to the foreground. “Dr. Vanek is right—the police will return in themorning,orevensooner.Wemustprepare.”ShelooksatCharles.“Thenurseryisourprimeconcern—therewillbenowaytoconcealourplansiftheyfindthechildren.”“Wehaveproceduresinplace,”saysCharles.“Arewehidingorevacuating?”“Hiding,”saysEllie,“butreadytoevacuateentirelyifweneedto.”“Ineedanhour.”“Doit,”saysEllie.Sheclenchesherjawinascowl.“Thisisnottherighttime

forthis!Wecan’tletthemdiscoverus.”“WhatabouttheHome?”asksArlene.“They’llusetheirsearchforVanekas

anexcusetoseizeeverythingtheycan.Iftheyfindourfiles—”“Leavethefilestome,”saysEllie,“youneedtodealwiththenurseryandthe

lab.”“Thelab?”Iask.“Ofcourse,”shesayssimply.“Thelastthingweneedisforthepolicetofind

us with a half ton of homemade cyanide.” She turns to the others. “Go withCharles—we’llneedeverymemberofthecounciltohelpcorraltheothers.Go!”“Cyanide?” I ask the question too quickly, too loudly; I know I’ve given

myselfaway,but…cyanide.Kellywasrightabout thestolenchemicals.Ellielooks atme, sensingmy shock, and I feelmy charade falling apart.What aretheydoingwithhalfatonofcyanide?“Youseemsurprised,”saysEllie,watchingmeclosely.“Youseemalmost…

concerned.”She’sontome.Ineedtothrowherbackoff.“Notconcerned,”Isayquickly,

“just surprised that… you were able to make that much. I was worried thatBrandon’sdeathatChemComhadcutoffyoursupply.”“Itdid,”saysEllie,“butIthinkwehaveenough.”Sheturnsaway,seemingly

mollified,andleadsmeintothenextroom.Threepeoplesitonacouchstaringvacantly at a cardboardbox; a crudehuman face has beendrawnon it, like achild’s pretend television. She speaks to them brightly, eerily reminiscent ofLinda’stherapyvoice.“Timetogo!Everybodystandup—that’sright,standup.Now comewithme.” She helps them to their feet, taking each person by the

handandpullingthemup.Thethreewalkstiffly,staringlistlesslyat thewalls;one of them twitches arrhythmically. “These are new,”Elliewhispers, leadingmebackoutside.“Therearedozensmorelikethem,allstillstrugglingwiththeProcess.Theyneedguidanceeventoeat.”Thestreetsofthefakesuburbarefilledwithpeople,halfofthemguidingthe

othersinachaotic,mindlesshorde.Elliemuttersinfrustration.“Idon’tblameyouforthepolice,Ambrose.ButIwishyou’dcomeatabetter

time.”Ihavetofindtheanswers.Isummonmycourageandaskthequestion.“Tell

me about the Process.” Ellie looks at me sharply, and I continue quickly tosoothehersuspicions.“Whathaveyoudonetorefineit?”Ifshetellsmehowit’schanged, Imightbeable tofigureouthowitworks in thefirstplace,and thatwilltellmehowtostopit.Ellie passes off the three human puppets to a nearby council member, and

gesturesformetofollow.Wewalktowardthenursery.“Weweren’t ready for the breeding programwhen the disaster with Cerny

forced itontous,”shesays,“but itworkedsowell thatwe’remoreor lessonscheduleanyway.Seeforyourself.”Ellie opens the nursery door and we walk inside. As with the rest of the

compound, there’snoelectricity,buteven in thedim light fromthedoorwayIcan see them: rowsand rowsofbeds, fromcribs to full-sizebunks, stretchingbackanddisappearing in theshadows.Eachbedholdsachild, smallandstill;sleepingorsedatedorcomatose,Ican’ttellforsure.TheyhaveIVsintheirarmsandclothbandageswrappedaroundtheirfaces.IlookatEllieinshock,andshenods.“Beautiful,isn’tit?”Istepupto thenearestbed,a tinycradle; thechild inside isnomore thana

few months old. A small card on the side says MARY. I reach toward her,trembling, touchingher lightlyon thearm;her skin iswarm.An IV tube runsinto her arm, her skin tight and crinkled under the clear tape that holds it inplace. The IV stand lurks over her in ominous vigil, one of a hundred standslineduplikesilentsoldiers.A light flaresbehindmeasEllie lightsanother lamp.“The IVswereoneof

ourmoresuccessfuladditions,”shesays.“Wecankeepthemdruggedforyearsifweneedto,thoughusuallyit’sonlyaweekatatime.Theirmindscanadaptmore swiftly in the absence of outside stimuli—emotions have provenparticularly problematic, and this process helps to negate their impact. Still,without regularexercise theirbodieswillbegin todegenerate.”Sheshakesherhead.“It’sanunfortunateflaw,butit’saflawweacceptedwhenwechosethispath.”Inod,tryingtokeepmybreathevenandmyfaceimpassivewhileinsideI’m

screaminginrageandfearandfrustration.Howcantheydothis?IpointsoftlyatthebandageonMary’shead.“Andtheirfaces?”“A small amount of facial pressure seems to ease the transition;most of us

sleepwithmaskson thesedays.Youcanremovethebandage ifyouwant,butthere’snothingtoseeyet—justanuglyhumanface.”I nod again, trying to stay calm. I think aboutmyself as a baby, lying in a

cradle just like this—maybe this very one—screaming and bawling whileoutside the police trade gunshots with a killer, and inside a mother murderschildrenonebyone.Aslashoftheknife,asplashofblood,andontothenextcradle.It’sanightmareI’velivedahundredtimessinceIlearnedthetruthaboutmybirth.ThisisthefirsttimeI’vesympathizedwiththemurderer.I walk away from the cradle, too torn to stay near it any longer. They are

destroyingthesechildren,implantingthemwithsomethingthatpushesouttheirmindsandtakesovertheirbodies.Tokillthemwouldbeamercy—buteventhethoughtofit,ofdoingitmyselfincoldblood,makesmestopandclutchthewallforsupport.Ifeellight-headedandnauseous.Iwanttoscreamandcryandrunaway.IwanttothrowdownEllieandshatterherlampandlightthenurseryonfire.Iwanttohideinaholeandnevercomeout.“Areyoualright?”Murderer!Iscreaminmyhead.Youdidthistome!Butshedidn’t—itwasDr.

Vanek.He started this, and then he did it tome, crawling inside ofme like ahandinapuppet.Andnowhe’stryingtogetbackout.“Ambrose?”

I turn toEllie,myeyeswetwith tears. Iwipe themaway; Ihave toexplainthem.“It’sjust…”Iswallowmynausea.“Ineverexpectedthatwecouldgetthisfar,andinsoshortatime.”Myexcusesoundsstupidandhollow,eventome.Irememberherauthoritarianjealousyandadd:“You’vedoneanincrediblejob—farmore than I could have done.” I curlmy lips into a smile, holding back awaveofrevulsion.HowcanItalktoherlikethis?HowcanIstandherenexttoahundredtorturedchildren?WhatelsecanIdo?She nods. “Thank you,Doctor.But I can’t take all the credit.Without your

researchtherewouldhavebeennofoundationtobuildon.”I look across the room, trying not to think about themass of children held

silentandhelpless.Ofmyapparentroleintheirhorror.“What’snext?”“PhaseFour.”Inod.“Ofcourse.”Ineedtolearnmore;Ineedtofindawaytostopit.Iturn

toherandsmile.“Ihopeyou’veimprovedonmyplansforthataswell—”Istopabruptly,listening.Thereisasoundinthefardarknessofthenursery,a

slow,wet,scuffle.Iknowthatsound.Itrytothinkofsomethingelse,toimaginea faceless nanny or a lost, mindless puppet, but I can’t. The image leapsunbiddentomymind.Agiantmaggot.Iwatchthesound,bracingmyselfforthesight.Thisiswhatthishasallledto

—this is what I’ve been searching for and avoiding at the same time. Theanswer.Iputahandonmyhead;I imagineIcanfeel theinteriorwriggleofaslick,larvalworm.The maggot slurps into view, a dim, writhing shape on the edge of the

lamplight.“Howarewegoingtohidethem?”Elliefollowsmygaze,thenlooksbackatme.“We’llcarrythemintothecorn.

The initiatescanhelp,withourguidance; theycanhide in thefieldswhile thepolicesearchthecompound.”“Carry them?” I ask. The thought of thatmaggot inmy arms fillsmewith

revulsion,andIsuppressashudder.“Isthatreallythebestway?”Sheshrugs.“There’snotimetowakethemup,andthelingeringsedationwill

helpkeepthemquiet.”“No,Imeanthe…”Istop.Something’snotright.

“Thewhat?”“The…” What do I say? I can’t talk about them without revealing my

ignorance—Vanekwould know somuchmore than I do;what they are,whatthey’recalled,whatthey’recapableof.“Theothers.”Themaggotcrawlsfartheroutof thedarkness, a shadowcoalescing intomucusandmuscle. Ipoint at it.“Them.”Ellie watches the aisle as the maggot slumps slowly toward us. “Tell me

something,Michael.”“Yes?”Shelooksatme.“Whatexactlydoyouthinkyousee?”Toolate,IrealizewhatI’vedone:shecalledmeMichael,andIansweredtoit.

Sheknows.I takeastepaway.“Whatdoyoumean?”CanIplaythisoff?CanIsalvage

this?Ellieadvancesonestep.“Theschizophreniaisstillinplace,isn’tit?Dr.Vanek

hasn’tescapedatall,you’resimplyplayingusforidiots.”Themaggot’sahallucination—there’snothingthere.That’showsheknewit

wasme.Iwatchthemonstercomecloser,ringedmouthgapingopen.“I’m—I’mVanek,Ellie,I’mAmbroseVanek.Youknowme.”“Youknowmenow,”shesays.“Justlikeyouknoweverythingelse.Andnow

thatyoudo,wecan’tletyouleaveagain.”Itrytosoundinnocent.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Dr.Vanek,canyouhearme?”“I’mhere,”saysVanek.He’sstandingnearme,maybetenfeetaway;Iglance

athimandElliefollowsmyeyes.“Canyouspeak?”sheasks.“Notthroughhim,”saysVanek.Hescowlsatme.“Notrightnow.”“OfcourseIcanspeak,”Isay.“I’vebeentalkingtoyouallnight.”Theworm

shufflescloser.“Ifyoucanhearme,”saysEllie,walkingslowlytowardthespotIglancedat

before,“IwantyoutoknowthatI’mdoingthis tohelpyou,not tohurtyou.Ihavenodesiretousurpyourposition.”Isteptowardher.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”

“Hither,”saysVanek,hisfacegrowingpale.“She’sgoingtoattackyou.”“What?”“You’reathreat,Michael,toherpowerandtotheentireplan.She’sgoingto

killyou,nowhither!”“We’ve suspected foryears thatyoumightbe trapped forgood,” saysEllie.

Shestops right in frontofVanek, lookingnearhimwithout lookingathim.“Iapologizethatithastobethisway.”“Now,dammit!”Idivetotheside,hidingbehindawoodentableasaflashofbluelightfillsthe

room. I feel a pain inmy shoulder, like a bright electric shock, andmymindspinswildlyatthecontact.IturntoEllie;she’sbracedwithherfeetwideapart,breathingheavily.“Traitor!”Vanekshouts,hisfacearedmaskofrage.“Howdareyouusethe

poweragainstyourownkind!”AblueboltoflightningarcsoutfromEllie’sface,andforasplitsecondthe

blur snaps into focus and I see Lucy’s face, old and lined but perfectlyrecognizable, and then the electrical surge slams intome and I choke back ascream, losing control of my muscles and collapsing to the floor. The worldwarps and curdles around me; my body grows and shrinks and my sensesexplodeinahailofsparklingshards.Igaspforbreath,strugglingtorememberthatIevenhavelungs,thatIneedthemtokeepmealive.TheworldswimsbackintofocusandIfeelpressureonmyback—Ellieiskneelingonme,pullingmyarmsbehindmetotiethem.“Getup,”saysVanek,growlingthroughclenchedteeth.Heswallowsthepain

andsnarlsagain.“Getupandhither.”Ellie leans forward, reaching for a rope, and I throw my arm backward,

twistingmy torsoasmuchas I can to slammyelbow intoher face.Herarmsflailoutandshetumblestotheside.Shehitsthegroundandtheropefliesoutofher hand, skittering across thewooden floor to stop in front of themaggot. Itsniffsit,glisteningmawsuckingattheair.IrolloverandleaponEllie,tryingtopinhertotheground.“Children!” she shouts, trying towrestleme away. I punch her in the face,

feeling my hand hum with a surge of energy. The contact brings pain—both

mineandhers, impossibly transferredwitha swirlof fearanddesperationandhot,rabidrage.“Getoffofme!”SheraisesherheadandIslamitagainwithmyelbow,hammeringherheadagainstthefloor;sheslows,coughingforair,andIgrabherheadinbothhands.Emotionrunsupmyarmslikeboltsofelectricity,emotion and thought and memory and rage. I see darkness and earth; I feelconfusionandpain; Iwailwithadesperationsoancientmymindcrumbles toruin at its touch. The sensation locks me in place, holds me in a vise ofunknowable sadness, and I struggle to escape. I can’t let go. Our minds aremergedandfrozen.Iforcemyarmsforward,feelingthembudgeafractionofaninch. I cando it. I’m trapped in an eternityof emotionless, alien thought, andtheninaburstofmotionIslamEllie’sheadagainstthewoodenfloor.Shefallslimp.Ipantforbreath,lettinggoofherhead.Iscrambleaway,watchingherbody,

butshedoesn’tmove.Themaggotisgone.Theropeliesabandonedonthefloor.Did I kill her? I creep forward, expecting her to leap up at anymoment—

expectingamaggottocomeburstingoutofherchestinabloodyassault.Butno,it’sinherface,notherchest.Isitamaggot?Amicrochip?Icouldcutheropenandfindout;Icoulddiscoveronceandforallwhat’shidinginsidethem.Is this how the other cultists died—beaten to death by a crazyman andhis

livingdelusions?AmIreallytheRedLineKillerafterall?Thedoorhandleturns.Someoneiscoming.

TWENTY-EIGHT

“LOCKIT!”SHOUTSVANEK.Hesnarlsandpointsatthedoor.“Quickly!They’llsee!”Thedoorstartstoopen,andIscrambletowarditinanawkwardflurry.Aface

peeksthrough:“Ellie?”I slam into thedoor,knocking it closed.Theangleof theopeningwas such

thatwhoeveritwasprobablyhadn’tseenEllie’sbody.Probably.Thevoiceismoreurgentnow,moreconfused.“Ellie?”“Tell themyou’reme,” saysVanek. “They’ll trustyou—theywere raised to

trustyou.”“It’sme,”Isayquickly,“Dr.Vanek.Doyouneedsomething?”“Weheardshouting,Doctor,iseverythingallright?”I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “Ellie wants to call off the

evacuation.”“No!”shoutsVanek,rushingtowardme.“Go and tell the others,” I continue. “We need everyone to stay in the

compound.”“Youcan’tdo that!”criesVanek, reaching for thedoor,but Iblock the lock

andhandlewithmybody.“Weneedtoevacuate,”heinsists.“Ellie’s treacherydoesn’tchangethat!”“Herdeathdoes,”Isay,staringhimdown.“I’minchargenow,andIwantthis

entirethingshutdown—thecompound,thechildren,the‘Process,’whateverthehellthatis.Thecopsarecomingback,andthey’regoingtofindthis,andthey’regoingtoendit.”“Andwhatdoyou think they’lldo to theman incharge?”asksVanek.“Pat

youontheheadandsendyouaway?”“They don’t know anything about you,” I say, “and they sawme arrive an

hourago.TheFBI’sbeenwatchingmeforyears—theyhavesomuchproofI’mnotinvolvedinthisthattheyactuallysentaguytoaskmewhyIwasn’t.”“So the council goes to jail,” says Vanek. “Hooray for you.What are you

going to do about everyone else?” He gestures at the shadowed nursery. “Ahundredchildren—two,maybethreehundredothers.Youcan’t‘save’them;youcan’treversetheProcess.Yourlegalsystemwillspreadthemout,dropthemintohospitalsandfosterhomesallovertheworld;yourgovernmentwillspreadtheChildrenwiderthantheChildrencouldeverhopetospreadthemselves.Doyouthinkwedon’thavepeopleon thepolice force? In thecourts?You’vealreadylost,Michael.”“Areyoutryingtomakemekillthem,then?That’stheonlyanswerleft!”“I’mtryingtomakeyouseethemastheyare.”“Whatarethey?”“Inevitable.”Iwatchhiminthelamplight,listeningtothecriesoutside.Thecompoundis

in chaos. I look at Ellie’s body, then at the rows of children. “What are theyreally?”“Thesamethingyouare.”“Thenwhat areyou?” I demand. “That thingyoudid in the car—that thing

Ellie did tome just now.Those aren’t normal things, they’re barely even realthings.Maybethey’renot,Ican’teventellanymore.”Istareathim,wide-eyed.“Areyoualiens?”“WearemorenativetothisEarththanyouare.WeareitsChildren.”“Butwhatdoesthatmean?”Heshrugs.“Youknowwheretheansweris.”Theoldfarmhouse,theoneElliecalledtheHome—Cerny’shome,certainly,

butsomethingelseaswell.Whateverthesepeopleare,whatevertheProcessis,therootofitisinthere.“Wedon’thavemuchtime,”Isay.“Ican’tletthepolicefindme.”“Runningawayagain?Isthatallyoueverdo?”“I’mgoingtotheHome,”Isay,“butIhavetogetoutbeforethepolicecome.”

Ipointatthebody.“Thisiswhat,thethirdpersonI’vekillednow?”“She’snotdead.”Ilistenatthedoor,makingsurethere’snoonewaitingontheotherside,then

openitcautiously,peekingoutatthecompound;peoplewanderthroughthedirtstreetsinconfused,raggedgroups.Iglancebackatthesleepingchildren.Ican’tsavethem,butmaybeIcanmakesureitneverhappenstoanyoneelse.I look back at the lock on the door, fiddling with it; it’s crude, but I can

probablyleaveitlockedbehindme.Idon’twantanyonetofindEllieandraiseanalarm.Istepoutsideandlockthedoorbehindme.A man walks past me, holding a leash; the collar drags along the ground

behindhim.Iwaitforhimtopassandstepoutintothestreet,weavingmywaybetween the slow rush of a dozen disorganizedmobs.Awoman stands in themiddleoftheroad,holdingagrocerysackupsidedowninherarms.Shestaresattheemptybaginsilence,ponderingit;behindheraconfusedswarmofpeoplerush madly from place to place, trampling underfoot a row of toy plasticvegetables.Isteparoundherandkeepgoing.“Dr.Vanek!”It’stheonecalledArlene—she’sweavingtowardmethroughthe

crowd.“Dr.Vanek,what’sgoingon?”Idon’tknowwhattosay.Ican’tletthemhidethosechildrenfromthepolice,

butVanekwasrightaboutlettingthembefound—they’llbespreadalloverthecity,maybealloverthecountry.Canthecultbespreadlikethat?Whatevertheyare,trappedinourheads,cantheygetout?Cantheymakemore?IhavetogettotheHome.Ipoint to themaingate.“Youneed towatch that,okay?Youneed towatch

thatgateandshoutanalarmifanyonegetsclose.”“Butwealreadyhaveguards.”“Idon’ttrusttheminthischaos,”Isay.“Whatifsomeonepulledthemaside

tohelpwiththeevacuation?Whatif theygotadifferentmessageentirely?Wehavetopostawatch,andithastobesomeoneIcantrust.CanItrustyou?”“Ofcourse,Doctor.”“Thengo.”Sheturns,stops,thenturnsbackandputsahandonmyarm.“Doctor?”

“Yes?”Shehesitates,shiftingherweightfromfoottofoot.“Isitover?”“I—Idon’tknow.”“TherewerepeopleIusedtolivewith.”“Yourfamily?”“Notmine.”Shefrowns,lookingdownatherbody.Sheshrugs.“Hers.”Istare

ather.Sheshiftsherweightagain.“WillIseethemagain?”Idon’tknowwhattosay.“Doyouwantto?”Shepursesherlips,searchingforwords.Shestartstospeak,thenstops,then

startsandstopsagain. Iputahandonhershoulder, feelinganelectrichumofconfusion.“Watchthegate.”She nods and goes. I watch her back, trying to decipher her meaning, but

there’snotime—they’reboundtofindElliesoon,lockeddoorornot,andthenthey’llcomelookingforme.IweavethroughthechaostotheHomeandtrythedoor;it’slocked.Evenwithinthecult,itseems,therearesecrets.Igobehind,toa back door hidden in shadow, and shatter thewindowwithmy elbow.Glassshardsfallandshatterfurtheronthefloor.Ireachincarefullyandturntheknob.Ihearashoutinthedistance:“He’shere!TheRedLine!”TheyfoundEllie.I

gritmy teeth and open the door;maybe I can find aweapon inside to defendmyself.Iwalkinandclosethedoorbehindme.I’mstandinginthekitchenofasmallcountryhouse—atleast,itwasbuiltasa

kitchen,buttheChildrenoftheEarthhaveturnedittootherpurposes.Mapslinethewalls.Agap in the counter, probably intended for a stove, has been filledwithfilingcabinets.Thelargetableinthecorneriscoveredwithpapers.Iwalkto it and try to read some, but the room is too dark; there are lamps on thecounter,butI’mtryingtostayhiddenanddon’tdareriska light. Ipickuptheneareststackofpapersandcarrythemtothewindow,pullingbackthecurtainsand holding them up to the moonlight: financial records. Birth records.Employmentrecordsforcultistsingovernment,lawenforcement,medicine,themilitary.Vanek iswatchingme from the shadows in the corner. I hold up thepapers.“Whatisthis?”

“Gainfulemployment.”“But the farm’s already self-sufficient,” I say, leafing through the stack.

“They’regettingthejobsforotherreasons,likeBrandonstealingingredientsforcyanide,orNickkeepinganeyeonmeatPowell.”Ipulloutapage.“Youhaveacitycouncilman—hecouldhelpkeepthefarmautonomous.”Ipulloutanother.“Youhaveapoliceofficertokeepitprotected.”Ipulloutanother,holdingittothelightandtappingitwithmyotherhand.“YouhaveamaninPublicUtilities,but…Idon’tseewhathedoesforyou.Doyougetfreewater?”“Wateristheonlythingwepayfor.”“Butyouhavewells.”“Wellwaterissomuchcleaner,don’tyouthink?”Hesmilescoldly.“There’s

notellingwhat’sfloatingaroundinthecitywatersystem.”Sothat’sit.“Thecyanide.Youpayforwatertomakesuretheykeepitflowing

throughthefarm,andwhileit’shereyoulaceitwithcyanide.”“Notyet,”hesays,shakinghishead.“Notuntil the infrastructure’s inplace.

NotuntilthePublicUtilitiesdirectorsortsoutwhatisdownstreamfromwhat.”“Andthenyoukilleveryoneinthecity.”“Onlyonecity?Please,Michael,showalittleambition.”Iswallow.“PhaseFour.”Vaneksaysnothing.“Youcan’tpossiblyhave thatmanypeople,” I say,“youhaven’tbeendoing

thislongenough.”“PhaseOnebeganintheearly1950s,”saysVanek.“Wetookanentirefamily:

MilosandNikolaiCerny;theirsisterEliskaandherhusbandAmbroseVanek;adozenmorewholivedandworkedhereonthefarm.Onceweadaptedtothefirstgroup’sphysiologywesplitintoteams—IwasinchargeofthemergingProcess,buttheotherssetoutalmostimmediatelytoinfiltrateeveryaspectofyourlives.”“Bymurderingtheworld.”“Bycleansingit.”Iglareathim.“You’remonsters.”Hesaysnothing.“Youreallyare—you’re

nothumanatall,youjust…moveus,likepuppets.”Isetdownthepapers.“Yousaidtheanswerswerehere,sohereIam.Whatareyou?”Henodstowardthedoortothenextroom.“We’rerightinthere.”

Ihesitate,watchinghim,suspiciousofsomuchfreeinformation,butIknowhewon’tkillme.Heneedsmybodyalive.Iwalktothedoor,pausingwithmyhand on the doorknob.What will I find? I see again inmymind the row ofcradles, the sprays of blood, the wild-eyedwomanwith the knife. I push thethoughtawayandopenthedoor.It’sdark in thenewroom—fardarker than thekitchen, for the frontdoor is

tightlyshutandthewindowsarecompletelyboardedover.Ifindalampinthedark,andaboxofmatchesnexttoit,andIfumblewiththemuntilImanagetosparkaflame;theroomglowsorange,atinyglobeoflightpressingoutagainsttheshadows,andthenI lightthelampandtheglobeexpandstoabright,wideyellow.Vanekfollowsme inandcloses thekitchendoorbehindus,hiding thelightfromtherestofthecompound.Icanhearshoutsandchaosechoingdimlythroughthewalls—theChildrenof theEarthrunninginpanicat thespecteroftheirkiller.Isitreallyme?HaveIcometodestroythem?Iignorethenoise;I’vecomeforanswers.Ipushallotherthoughtsaway.Thereisnoonehere,butI’mnotalone.Icanfeelitinmylegs,vibratinglike

the hum of an engine—there is something, or someone, nearby. The trueChildrenoftheEartharecloseenoughtotouch.Butwhere?The room isnearlybare, containingnothingbuta fewchairs, abed,andan

elaboraterigofchainsandpulleys.Iwalkaroundthem,touchingeachitem;thechairsaresolidwood,reassuringlysturdy.Thethick,metalchainsarecooltothetouch,neithersmoothnorrough,runningupfromthebedtoasystemofgearsand wheels on the ceiling. The bed has a thin mattress and a rough woolenblanket,andthesidesarefixedwithstrongleatherrestraints,justliketheonesIhadatPowell.Ipickuponeofthemanacles,turningitoverinmyhand.Idropit.Iwalkaroundtothefrontofthebed——andthenIfeelit.Thisiswherethehumiscomingfrom,directlybelowmy

feet.It’sthesamepulsingjoltIfeelwithcellphones,thesamehumIfeelfromtouchingthecultists,butahundredtimesstronger—athousandtimesstronger—and insteadofbeingpainful it feels sicklyeuphoric, like the cranialbuzzof anarcoticorageneralanesthetic. Itcalls tome; itpullsmedown; it feelsmorefamiliar,andmorealien,thananythingI’veeverfelt.IrealizeI’mlyingonthefloorandIstruggletostandup.Vanektakesmyhandandpullsmetotheside.

“Thereare still somanyofusdown there,”he says, leaningmeagainst thewall.He’spanting.“Thesensationis…strongerthanIremember.”Icanseeanoutlineinthefloor—atrapdoorhingedtofoldopenandclosed.

Thechainsmakemoresensenow—withthetrapdooropen,thebedcouldslideforwardanddroprightdowninside.Iclutchthewallandpullmyselftomyfeet.“Whatareyou?”“WearetheChildrenoftheEarth.”“Butwhatdoesthatmean?”Vanekstandsmotionless.“Itmeanswewereherebeforeyou.Inancienteons

before the rise of Man we lived in the depths of the Earth; we plumbed itssecrets;wethoughtandwewatchedandwelearned.”“You’rethemaggots?”“The maggots are a construct of your imagination,” says Vanek. “They

represent us in your mind; you were aware of something you couldn’t fullyprocess,andcreatedahallucinationtogiveitform.Inrealitywehavenoformatall.”“That’simpossible.”“Don’tbeanidiot,”hesays.“Whatisintelligencebutanorganizedmatrixof

electrical impulses? In you it evolved through flesh, but it is typical humanarrogance to assume that it could not evolve in otherways for other forms oflife.”“Youdon’tjustreacttoelectricalfields,”Isay,thepiecesfinallyclickinginto

place,“youareelectricalfields.”“Weareenergy,”hesays,“unconstrainedand,aswediscovered,unprotected.”Istareatthetrapdoor,stillfeelingitspullthroughthesolesofmyfeet.They

feelsopowerful—whatcouldpossiblyharmthem?“Unprotectedfromwhat?”“Fromyou,”hesays.“Yourradios,yourcellphones,yourentirecivilization.

Themoretechnologyyoubuild,themoreyouattackuswithit,beamingwavesandfieldsandsignalsallovertheplanet.”Inod.“That’swhythosesignalshurtmesomuch—becausetheyhurtyou.”“They distort us as painfully as a physical attack hurts your physical body,

exceptyou’vefilledtheworldwiththem.Fornearlyahundredyearsyourkindhasbeenbombardinguswithanendlessbarrageofcontraryfieldsandforeign

radiation—you’veallbutdestroyedourabilitytolive.”Istareatthetrapdoor,mouthhangingopen.“Wedidn’tknow.”“Does thatmatter?”hedemands.“Has ignoranceeverexcusedmurder,even

inyourown imbecilic society?Weexist in a very specific bandof geology—certainrockformations,certainmineralstructuresconducive toourfields.Youdroveusawayfromthem,fartherandfartheruntilwecouldn’tsurvive.Ouronlychoicewastocomeout.”“To steal our bodies?” I demand. “You accuse us of invasion, and thenyou

turnaroundandwearuslikeclothes—likesomekindofhazmatsuits?”Hewalkstothebed,grabsalever,andpushesitdown;thefloordropsaway

and thebed lurches forward to theedge. I stepcloser, feeling the tingle inmylegsgrowstronger.Ipeerintothehole.It’sadeeppit,darkandhollowlikeanemptywell.Thesidesareroughand

uneven,fullofgapsandhollowsandsharpflaresofrock—thiswasn’tbuilt, itformednaturally,hollowedoutbywaterortornopenbyanearthquake.Igasp,mybreathcatchinginmythroat.Thisisthepitthat’shauntedme;thisisthepitthat’s lurked in the back ofmymind andworked itsway into somany othermemories.Iknowthisplace.“I’vebeenhere,”Isay.“I’vebeen…downthere.”Vaneknods.“Thisishowwemerged.Thefirsttimewasanaccident;oneof

the farmers broke through the surface and fell into the sinkhole—your friendMilos, in fact. When he finally gained enough control to realize what hadhappened—that hewas safe, that the painwas gone—he started throwing theothersinsowecouldjoinhim.Imaginethepainwemusthavebeenintoagreeto such a mad endeavor—to give up our lives and seal ourselves inside of alessercreature.Itwouldbelikeyouchoosingtoliveasavegetable.”I stare at the pit, imagining the darkness, the pain, the terror on both sides.

Innocentbeingsattackedbytheirownworld.“Icanonlyimagine.”“Thatwas1952.Nowimaginehowmuchworse it’sgottensince then.Your

technologyhasoutstrippedeveryotherelectricalforceontheplanet.”Hebowshis head, looking reverently into the empty pit. “You stand on holy ground,Michael.Youstandoverthelasthavenofourpeople.”Iturnonhim,angryandfrightened.“Andnowwhat?Howdoesitend?With

traitorsintherightpositionsandamassivestashofcyanide?Whynotjustnuketheworldandkillusall?”“If our host body dies, we die, because our electrical patterns become

dependentonyoursduringthemerging.Wecanleaveabodyvoluntarily,butwemustimmediatelyenteranother.”“Soyou’reprotected,”Isay,“butyou’retrapped.”Henods.“Anecessaryevil.”“Thenwhathappensnext?”“Wewillundoyou.Wewilldestroyyourcapacitytohurtus.Wewillreturn

youtothepastorallifeyouusedtolead,beforeyoupoisonedthesky.”“Youcan’t.”“We already are. The poison is already in place, the water system already

mapped and routed exactly thewaywe need it—in this city and in dozens ofothers,scatteredtoeverycornerofthecountry.Inamatterofdaysyourgloriouscitywill be a ruin, quiet and empty, home only to shadows and echoes and avast,opengrave.”

TWENTY-NINE

I STARE INTO THE PIT, searching for some sign of life—a flicker ofmovement, a glimmer of color—but there’s nothing to see. Instead I feel it,vibrating throughmy body like a wave of energy.We are here. We are yourbrothers.Weareyourdeath.A hundred faceless spirits, intangible and invisible, hell-bent on the

destructionofallmankind.WhatcanIdotostopthem?Vaneksmilesingrimsatisfaction.“Youseenowthatthere’snothingyoucan

dotostopus.We’resmarter thanyou;we’remorepreparedthanyou.Andtheonlyhumanbeingwhoknowsofourplansisadangerousschizophrenic,well-known for his ridiculous delusions and, now, wanted formurder.” He smiles.“We’vealreadywon.”“Thepolicewillcome,”Isay.“They’llcometolookforme,andthey’llfind

yournurseryandthey’llputyouallinjailforever.”“Foreverisaverylongtime,”hesays,“andwecanaffordtowaitmuchlonger

than you.Do you knowhowoldwe are,Michael?Do you have any idea thethingswe’ve seen—the gloriesmymind contains? Iwas herewhen theEarthcracked open and the continents split apart;when the dinosaurs rose and fell;whenthefirstmanraisedhisspindlyarmstodeifythesky.Iwatchedhimdoit,or one like him, squirming like an insect in a jar, railing idiotically against aworld he couldn’t possibly understand.” Vanek walks toward me, seeming togrowlargerasheapproaches.“Doyouhaveanyideahowinsignificantyouarecompared to us?How little it would bother us to snuff you out like candles?We’veseenyourinfantilepoliticalsystems:you’dkillyourselvesifwegaveyouan excuse.” He looms over me, malevolent eyes mere inches from my face.

“You’realoneandyou’rehelpless.Thereisnothingyoucandotostopus.”I feel a hand onmy arm; Lucy is here. “You’re not alone,Michael. Don’t

listentohim.”Vaneklaughs.“Animaginaryfriend:howterrifying.”“You’rejustasimaginaryasIam,”Lucysnaps.“Iammorerealthananyhumancouldpossiblybe.”“ThenwhyamIstillincontrol?”Ilookup,meetinghiseyes,forcingmyself

nottoshybackfromtheforceofhisgaze.“Ifyou’resopowerful,whyareyoustilltrappedinmymind?”Hehitsme,ashockingblowacrossthefacethatsendsmereelingagainstthe

farwall.“Donotmockme!”Lucytackleshimfrombehind,buthethrowsheroffwithease;shenearlyfalls

intotheopenpit,butcatchestheedgeofthebedandpullsherselfaway.Isteadymyselfagainstthewall.“You’reaprisoner inmyhead,Vanek.Yousaidsoyourself.” I letgoof the

wall,legsstillshaky,andsteptowardhim.“Thatmeansyou’reweakerthanyousayyouare.ItmeansIcanbeatyou.”“It’snotmyweakness,”hesays,rushingtowardme,“it’syours!”Hehitsme

again, knocking me into the chairs; they clatter to the ground around me,bruising my arms and slamming solidly against my chest. “Your mind isbroken!”Vanekgrowls.“Ican’tcontrolyourbodybecausenoonecancontrolit—it’sahopelesswreckoffaultyconnectionsandcrossedwires.”Itrytostandandhehitsmeagain,slammingmyheadagainstthewall.“You’reauselessbagofmeat!”Icrawlawayfromhim,scatteringthechairsandtryingtokeepthembetween

us. Lucy meets me, crawling from the other direction, and wraps her armsaroundmeprotectively.ShehasacutonhercheekfromwhenVanekthrewher.Dr.Vanek shakes his head, looking down at uswith disdain. “If I’d known

twentyyearsagothatyourmindwasthistwistedanduseless,I’dhavekilledyouonthespotandmergedwithsomeoneelse.”I’mshaking,tryingtoregainmybreathandbearing.Lucystrokesmycheek,

whispering, “It’s all right—you’re still in charge. He can rail and yell all hewants,butyou’restillincharge.”

“You’re trapped in here with me,” Vanek snarls at her. “Don’t make meangry.”“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead,“she’sright.”“Shutup!”“You’re trapped,” I say. I bracemyself on a fallen chair and stagger tomy

feet. My left eye feels swollen, and my ribs throb with pain. “I thought myschizophreniawaspartofwhatyoudidtome,butit’snot—it’sanaccidentyouweren’tpreparedfor.Youcan’tevenchooseanewhost,thewaytheotherscan,becauseyoucan’tfindyourwayoutofmymind.”Istandupstraight.“Forallyour talk you’re still just a prisoner, and I’m not useless because I’m yourprison.”“Icancontrolyou.”“Sometimes,”Isay,“butnotoftenenough,andnotconsistently.Theother…

Children of the Earth, whatever you are… they could take over their hosts’bodies in just a few years because they figured out how the nervous systemworked:whichelectricalpulsesconnectedtothesensesandthemusclesandthememories.But I’mschizophrenic—noneof the systemsyou’ve tried tomastermakeanysense,andhalfofthemarecompletefabrications.Youhearthingsthataren’t there,youseepeople thatdon’texist.Youtracementalsignals thatstartnowhereandend inanothernowherecompletelydifferent from the first. It’sawebyoucanneverhopetountangle.”Isetmyjawandstarehimdown.“Icanseeyouandhearyou,Icanfeelyourattacks,butnooneelseevenknowsyouexist.Youcan’ttalkoractorcommunicatewithanyone.Asfarastherealworldisconcerned,you’rejustanotherhallucination.”Heroarsandchargesmeagain,butthistimeIstandmygroundanddeflecthis

swingwithmyarm,throwinghimback.“Youliveinmymind,Vanek!Youcan’thurtme!”“ButIcan,”saysEllie.Ilooktothekitchenandseeherstandingintheopen

doorway,onearmlimpatherside,theotherhandholdingagun.Herblankfaceis smeared with a blur of blood, like I’m looking through a cloud or a TVpixilation.“Ithoughtyouweredead.”Vanekbarksahumorlesslaugh.“Itoldyoushewasn’t.”

Elliestepsforward.“I’msorry,Dr.Vanek,butthisistheonlywaytostophim.Itpainsmethatyouwilldiewithhim,butIwillnotsacrificeourpeopletosaveyou.”Sheswallows.“I’lluseaguntoavoidanymore…unpleasantness.”Lucystepsinfrontofme,blockingthepathbetweenmeandVanek.“Ican’t

protectyoufromher,”shesays,noddingatEllie,“butifVanekattacksyouhe’llhavetogetthroughmefirst.”“Idon’tneedtoattackanyonebutEliska,”saysVanek.“Ihavenotcomethis

closejusttoletherkillme!”“Don’tattackher!”Ishout.“She’llshootmeandkillusboth.”“I’msurehe’senraged,”saysEllie,leaningtiredlyagainstthedoorframe.“He

wasneverasselflessastherestofus—that’swhyheinsistedonclaimingoneofthenewer,youngerbodies.”Shesmilescruelly.“Iguessweseewhatgreedwillgetus,don’twe?”“Justthinkaboutthis,”Isay,fixingherwithmyeyes.“You’retalkingabout

the destruction of an entire civilization. Can’t we find some kind ofcompromise?”“Dohumanscompromisewithcattle?”asksEllie.“Dotheymakedealswith

insects?Humans are nothingbut a nuisance to us—an infestation to be culledandfarmed,ascasuallyasyouwouldwatchagoldfishinabowl.”“Wecan communicatewith eachother!” I say. “Doyouhave any ideahow

incrediblethatis?Tofindintelligencerighthere,rightunderournoses!Wehaveideastodiscusswitheachother—culturestoshareandexplore.”“Wehaveexploredyourculturesincethedayyourinvasivetechnologyforced

ustopayattentiontoit,andwehavefoundnothingofanyvalue.”Sheglancesattheceiling,asiflookingattheskybeyond.“Weheardthestarssinging,Michael;beforeyoudrenchedtheworldinelectricalblatherwefelttheEarthstirwithinus,we felt themovementsof the sunand themoonas theydancedacross thesky.Whatcouldyoupossiblyhavetocomparewiththat?”“Wehave…”Istop.Whatdowehave?I’velivedalifeoffearandhatredand

neglect;Iwasteasedatschool,tossedhelplesslyfromjobtojob,beatenbymyownfather.Ihavelivedfortwentyfullyearswithouteverexperiencingpeaceorhappiness.Now,Isearchforanimpassioneddefenseofhumanity,andIcanfindnothing.

“Wehavelove,”saysLucy.Ilookatherstandinginfrontofme,herclothesrippedandbloody,hersmall

framedwarfedbyVanek’sterrifyingbulk.She’sanothing—afrailfigmentofadiseasedimagination—andyetshe’spreparedtosacrificeeverythingtosaveme.Me.Thechildnoonecaredabout;themaneveryonewantedtoforget.Shelovesme.Hervoiceisfirmandfierce.“Doyoupeopleevenknowwhatloveis?Doyou

haveanyideawhatlovecandotoyou—howitcancrackyouopen,howitcanbeatyoudownandscouryoursoulandleaveyoumorejoyfulthanyou’veeverbeen before?” She talks proudly, and I realize that I am talking with her,mirroringherwords.“Youweremarried,Ellie:AmbroseandEliskaVanek.Didthatmeananything toyouatall?Even ifyourkindhavenoemotionsofyourown,didyougainnothingfromyourhosts—nofeelings,nomemories,nohopesordreams?”Elliesnarls.“Nothing.”“But he felt something for you,” I say, stepping forward. “Vanek’s thoughts

wereinmyhead,hismemoriesmingledwithmine,andoneofthemmusthavebeenhisloveforyou.”IlookatLucyandsheturnstome,browneyesbrimmingwith tears. “Whyelsewouldmy idealgirlfriend—themostperfectwomanmymindcouldimagine—haveyourface?”Ellie’sarmfalters.Vaneklooksather.“Therewassomething,”shesays,“long

ago.Itwasnotlovebutloss,asadnessIcouldn’tunderstand.”“Loss?”“WhenAmbroseleft—whenhemergedwiththechildandhisoldhostdied—I

felt…grief.”Sheshakesherheadandsnarls.“Ifeltmyhost’sweakness.”Herarm straightens, the pistol again trained squarely on my chest. “It was not asensationIhaveanydesiretorepeat.I’veraisedeverychildsincethentoignoreit.”“But you can’t,” I say, rememberingArlene. Shemissed her human family.

“It’sapartofyounow.Youdidn’tfeelemotionsasspirits,orfields,orwhateveryouwere,butyoufeelthemnow—yourentirerace,everyonewho’sbondedwitha human host. They were raised with us, they feel a kinship with us.” I stepforward.“Whenthetimecomes,andyougivetheorderstodestroyus,willthey

evenfollowyou?”Ellie hesitates, her arm wavering. I watch her closely, fists clenched in

anticipation.Putdownthegun!Sheshakesherhead.“Idon’thavetimeforthis,”shesays.“TheRedLineKillerishere—Imustgo

anddealwithhim,andIcan’t riskyougettingaway.Whatever thismeansforourplan,whateverchangesI’llhavetomake…eitherwayIstillcan’tletyoulive.”“Wait,” I say, confused. “The Red Line Killer?When I heard the shouts I

thoughttheyweretalkingaboutme.”“You?”asksEllie.“You’renottheRedLineKiller,it’syour—”Herchest explodeswithadeafeningboom, sprayingbloodagainst thewall.

Herbodyslumpstotheground,blankfacestaringvacantlyattheceiling,andasIwatchitthesmoothbluroverherfeaturesstartstodistort.Lightandcolorswirlandfuse,andalltoosoontheydissipateanddie.Lucy’sfacestaresblanklyfromthefloor,oldandwrinkled.“No!”Vanekwails.A figure steps into the room: first a shotgun, then a pair of black-clad legs

steppingoverthecorpse,thenaface:myfather.Hetrainstheshotgunonme.“Areyouoneofthem?”Myfather.IlookatEllie’scorpse,thenbackathisface.“Isitreallyyou?”“Answerme,Michael.”He raises the shotgun tohis cheek and sightsdown

thebarrel.“Areyouoneofthem?”“Theytried,”Isaid,glancingatVanek,“butI’mstillme.”Hedoesn’tmove.Hisfingerhoversoverthetrigger.“Father?”“Proveit,”hesays.“Youcan’tevenstanduptoyourfather,”saysVanek.“Givemecontrolandbe

amanforachange.”Myfatherbarks:“Answerme!”I shakemyhead, steelingmycourage.“No,Dad, it’syour turn to talk.You

gavemeyourcar,thenyoucalledthepoliceandtoldthemwheretofindme.”Ipause,frowning.“Andyouwantedthemtofindmehere,ornearhere.Youtoldmetotakethisroad.Isthisisasetup?”

“Youwatchyourmouth,boy.”“You planted your cell phone in the car with me—if you’re the Red Line

Killer,that’sevidence.”“Itoldyoutoanswerme!”Istareathisgun,terrifiedandliberatedatthesametime.I’veneverstoodup

tohim;I’veneverhad thecourage.ButnowI’veseensomethingevenscarier,and he’s only amanwith a gun. “What else did you plant in the car,Dad? Ididn’t check the trunk—is theremore evidence in there?Thegunyouused tokillthem,ortheknifeyouusedtocutofftheirfaces?”Hisexpressionisflatandemotionless;hismouthathin,tightline.“Thepolice

wanted you anyway, so I figured you could take the blame for me, too; takesomeoftheheatandletmekeepworking.”“Butwhatwereyoudoing?”“Iwastryingtofindwhattheywere,”hesays.“Yousawherdiejustnow—

there’ssomethingintheirheads,somethingbehindtheirfaces.Icouldneverfindwhatitwas.”Iswallow.“Doyouwanttoknow?”Hetightenshisgripontheshotgun.“Iwanttoknowhowtokillthem.”“Butwedon’thavetokillthem.Youjustshotoneringleader,andtheotheris

trappedin…,”Istopmyself,eyeingtheshotgun.“He’strapped.They’retheonesbehindallthebadstuff.Therestareinnocent.They’repracticallychildren,justliketheirname.”Hisvoiceisfirmandheartless.“Tellmehowtokillthem.”“We’re already killing them! Everythingwe do, everythingwe have, we’re

stranglingthemrightoutofexistence.”IlookatVanek.“Themanonthecouncilsaidwhat, twomoregenerations?That’snotverymanypeople—eighthundredmaybe,intheirentirespecies.Intheirentireformoflife.Weshouldbetryingtosavethem.”“Iwon’thearthattalkfromyou!”heshouts.“Iwon’thearthattalkfromher

son!”Istraighten,standingastallasIcan.“Yousawthepeopleoutthere—they’re

scared,andthey’relost,andall theywant todois live.They’renot thepeoplewhokilledMom.”

Hetakesastepforward.“Yourmotherwasthebestthingthateverhappenedtome, and now I ammaking them pay. I thoughtmaybe I’d done thewrongthing,lettingheronlysongodownformycrimes.”Hepauses,swallowinghistears,andwhenhespeaksagainhisvoiceiscrackedandhusky.“Butifhersonhasjoinedherkillers,IsweartoGodIwillendyou.”Hestepsforward.“Proveitnow,ordiewhereyoustand.”“Youcan’twin,”saysVanek,watchingme.“Youjoinusandhekillsyou,or

youjoinhimandcommitgenocide.”I shake my head. “There’s another way.” I point at the pit, and look

desperatelyatmyfather.“IthinkIcanendthiswithoutkillinganyone.”Heglancesdown, stepsback, then looksbackatme,keeping thegun level.

“What’sdownthere?”“Thethingthatdestroyedourlives.”Iwalktowardthebed.“Iwasborninthis

room—theyputmeinthatpit,andthroughittheyputsomethingintomymind.AndnowI’mgoingbackin.”Lucyputsahandonmyarm.“YouthinkVanekcangetout?”“I’mnotgoingtogethimout,I’mgoingtotraptherestoftheminherewith

him.”“No!”criesVanek,andLucygrabsmyarm.“They’ll destroy you,” she says. “With that many minds in one head you

won’tevenbeabletomove!”“Thenneitherwillthey.They’llbesuckedin—I’llpulltheminifIcan—and

they’llbetrapped.”“Youwouldn’tdare!”shoutsVanek.“I’velivedwithafalserealitymywholelife,”Isay,pointingathim,“butyou

andtheotherswillbetrappedandhelpless.”“You’reinsane!”myfathergrowls.Iwhirltofacehim.“I’minsanebutI’mright.Andthatmakesmetheperfect

prison.”Vaneklungesatme,shovingLucyasideandpunchingmesquareintheface.I

reelbackward.MyfathercriesoutandLucy tacklesVanek, trying topullhimoff, but he’s too strong; he comes atme again, poundingmyhead against thefloor.

“Michael,”myfathershouts,“whatareyoudoingtoyourself!”“Grabme!”Vanekkicksmeinthechest,knockingthewindoutofme.Istruggleforair,

gaspingdesperatelyassoonasIcanbreatheagain.“It’snotme,just—holdmedown!”My father reaches for me, fending off a flurry of kicks and punches from

Vanek,and thenhehasmeby the leg;he’sdraggingmeacross the floor;he’spulling me toward the pit. He catches both my feet, holds them tightly, andsuddenlyVanekcan’thurthimanymore—hesimplystandstotheside,seethingwithrage.“Youcan’tdo this!”Vanekshouts.“Even ifyou trap themall inyourmind,

there’shundredsmoreoutside!Youcanneverstopus!”“Idon’tneedtostopthem,”Isay.“WithoutyouorEllietheotherswillchange

theirminds—someofthemalreadyhave.Theywon’tdestroyaspeciesthey’vebecomeapartof.”Vaneklunges,butmyfatherclutchesmyfeettighter,holdingmeinplace,and

Vanekcan’thurthim.IlookatLucy.“Idon’tknowwhatthisisgoingtodotome,but…”Ipause.“I

loveyou.”Hereyesarewetwithtears.“I’mnotevenreal.”“You’rerealtome.”Istareatheramomentlonger,notdaringtopullmyeyes

away.Myfatherholdsmytwitchingfeetinanironembrace.“Ican’tstrapyoudown

withyoufightinglikethis.”Ilookattheedgeofthepit.Ilookup,seeingtheroomandthefarmandthe

greatcitybeyond—teemingwith lifeand light,only tobesnuffedoutand leftempty.Amonumenttoalostworld.It’stheonlywaytostopit.“You’llhavetothrowme.”I’llbebroken,butI’llbealive.“It’sokay,”saysLucy,kneelingnexttome.“We’lldothistogether.”Ikeepmyeyesonhers;sheholdsmetightly,andIclutchherhandsinmine.

“I’mready,”Isaycalmly.“Throwmein.”Myfatherheaves,Vanekroars,andIfallintothedeepblackpit.

EPILOGUE

THEHOUSEISENORMOUS—amansion, really.Lucycalls itapalace,butitdoesn’treallyhavetheappearance.Ithinkshejustlikestothinkofherselfas a princess. She sits across fromme at a long, narrow table and raises herglass.“Dinnerlooksdelicious.”“Itdoes.”Ismile.Therearefootstepsintheroomaboveus,slowandponderous,butI

ignore them. I ignore everyone in the house these days, keeping most of thedoorsclosedsothatLucyandIcanenjoyoursolitude.Mostoftheothersaretoolosttofindusanyway.Itis,asIsaid,averybighouse.EvenVanekcan’tfindhiswayout.Ipickupmyspoon—polishedsilver,intricatelycarved—andscoopupabite

from the delicate china bowl. Oatmeal. It seems like oatmeal is all we getanymore, though sometimes there are other things: applesauce. Jell-O. Creamsoupsifit’saspecialoccasion.I’mneversurewhatthespecialoccasionsare,butIdon’tmind.Ihavealuxuriousmansion,thefoodisdeliciousandfree,andmybestfriendisthewomanofmydreams.We’vespentourlivesthiswayfor…Ilosetrack.Averylongtime.I’mhappierthanI’veeverbeen.A shape walks past the door, dark and half-formed. I watch the empty

doorway,waiting, and amoment later the shape returns. Its voice is dull anddistant.“Whoareyou?”IglanceatLucy,thenbackattheshapeinthedoor.“Iamthemasterofthis

house.”Itstandssilently,doingnothing;itisashadowmadereal,itsoutlinefadingat

theedges.Itraisesablack,translucentlimb.“WhoamI?”“Youaremyguest,” I saysoftly.“Youmaygoanywhereyouwish,butyou

maynotleavethishouse.”“Thenyouareajailer.”“Inasense.”“Andwhatismycrime?”Isetdownmyspoon.“Whenyouhavediscoveredthat,”Isay,“returntome,

andwewilldiscussit.”The shape turns, wisps of unreality trailing as it moves. It leaves without

farewell,andIturnbacktomyfood.“They’relearning,”saysLucy.“Theyare.”“Andthey’regettingbraver.Moreforward.”Isaynothing.Istareatthetable,playingwithmyfork.“Dessert ishere.”Sheholdsupa silver trayandgracefully removes the lid.

“Peaches.”Ismile.“Ilovepeaches.”Ipierceonewithasilverfork,watchingthejuices

run.Iplaceitinmymouth.Itisdelicious.

TORBOOKSBYDANWELLS

IAmNotaSerialKillerMr.MonsterIDon’tWanttoKillYou

TheHollowCity

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

Dan Wells lives in Orem, Utah, with his wife, Dawn, and their five youngchildren.VisitDanatwww.fearfulsymmetry.net.

This isaworkof fiction.Allof thecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayed in thisnovelareeitherproductsof theauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.

THEHOLLOWCITY

Copyright©2012byDanWells

Allrightsreserved.

CoverphotographbyDennisFlaherty/Photonica/GettyImages

ATorBookPublishedbyTomDohertyAssociates,LLC175FifthAvenueNewYork,NY10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor®isaregisteredtrademarkofTomDohertyAssociates,LLC.

ISBN978-0-7653-3170-0(hardcover)ISBN9781429950619(e-book)

FirstEdition:July2012