Guardian (continued)

I suppose scientists never fully understood how our brains store and retrieve memories. Certain parts of the brain—although I don’t remember which ones—are known to be the primary locations where it is believed that the brain stores our memories, but there have been countless documented cases of people who suffered severe or catastrophic brain damage in those areas and still retained access to those memories. Sometimes the recall would not come for years and years later, or after much time spent in therapy and rehabilitation. Even then, sometimes there were gaps in the continuity of those memories or, in some rare cases, a concatenation of memories that did not match the actual event.

It feels slightly morbid to even be considering this. My memories appear to be intact, except, of course, that so-far-unexplained four-year gap following my “death”. If my mind is playing tricks, concocting memories of events that never occurred through the random association of memories that it can find, how would I know? If the sequence of incidents that make up that event seems make logical sense, again how would I know? Can I even be sure of what I perceive to be logic?

That, I fear, veers off into the realm of philosophy. Although that was one of my better series of courses in college, and I did find it to be far more interesting and engaging set of studies than I thought it would be, I never could fully grasp some of the metaphysical foundations of some of the philosophical disciplines. I do remember the professor who taught two of the courses, although I never could remember his name even years later. He was more than middle-aged man who regularly dressed in khaki cargo pants and Birkenstock sandals and white socks. He had white hair and a beard that, while you were unlikely to mistake him for Santa Claus, certainly made you consider that he was probably one of jolly old elf’s close relations.

Guardian (continued)

Faint pink-violet light peeks above the horizon. Dawn begins and I’m relieved that I haven’t lost all sense of the passage of time and the days. It is still some time before Jessica will be awakened by her father, though. These are strange, quiet hours: nature begins to awaken, but few humans do. Those who don’t miss the magic of it. I’m not sure I truly appreciated it when I was among the living. I suppose I do, from time to time, notice the colors and occasional beauty of it through the windshield of a car driving to work or through whatever rare window might be present in the building in which I was employed. When one has nothing but time, I guess you learn to spend it more freely, to view and value the things that you wished you had in life.

Somewhere, far off, I hear sirens. They are distant, heading further away from this house where Jessica and her family reside. I’m not sure whether it might be an ambulance, fire engine, or police vehicle. My son knew the difference—and was always willing to test and correct me when I guessed wrong. It was a fun little kind of game we played. He liked being able to show off—to demonstrate that there were things that he knew that his father didn’t. I don’t think it made him particularly superior, but pleased that there were areas in which his knowledge exceeded mine—something somewhat rare in his experience. But then fifty-plus years of life and learning will do that: it’s amazing how much unrelated knowledge one can acquire during the course of a lifetime, often without meaning to. Of course, I usually meant to. I could never see why learning should not be a lifelong pursuit. I’d seen too many people grow old before their time, eschewing new knowledge and experience for the safety of the familiar and the comfort of memories.

I was fearful that memories—and endlessly reliving them—might be all that I would have if I was wrong about this new state of existence. I am grateful that I seem to be able to still learn new things. I do wonder, though, where this new information is being stored, as I don’t believe I still have a physical brain, with its network of neurons and receptors, in which to store and access it.

Guardian (continued)

I wonder if that will make eternity seem to last even longer—if such a thing is possible. I remember a line from some television show: “The problem with immortality is that it’s boring.” I suppose that living an eternity in this state—or any state, I imagine—must be a lot like that. I haven’t been existing in it long enough yet to know, but I can see how that might be.

A memory comes to me of the cool, damp scent of pre-dawn, that time when the dew has settled like mist on everything before the morning sun burns it away. Most people start their days too late to notice it, but I remember it well, for I often left for work in the pre-dawn hours in order to avoid the worst of the traffic that clogs the California freeways from dawn until nightfall.

I thought I’d miss that, but I find a certain longing for it—for the solitary time alone in my car listening to one narrator or another reading from some old book I’d once read. It was my way of returning to the novels that I remembered from my younger days, having little time in the evenings to read both new stories and revisit old tales. That I will never be able to read to Jessica is a loss that I’m not sure that I considered before. For something so important to me, you’d have thought that I would have given it some consideration. Perhaps I did; I no longer remember.

What else have I forgotten? Is that how this existence ends—that my memories slowly fade, one by one, until none remain and whatever I am now is gone? That seems a horrible way to go, but I’m not sure I’ll even be aware of it. I mean, how can you realize that you’ve forgotten something that you no longer remember? I seem to remember everything about my life . . . at least no less than I think I remember while still living it. There is that four-year gap after my living existence ended, but I think that’s a different thing. For all I know, I spent them on the bank of a great world-spanning river. Or somewhere on Mars. Or . . . I have no idea.

Guardian (continued)

During the day I can follow her around. It’s strange, though, as there seem to be gaps even in that. I don’t know if my mind wanders—which concerns me greatly if it does, for then I’m not keeping as close a watch on her as I have dedicated myself to—or if it some kind of weird effect or lingering side effect of the four-year gap between when I died and when I became aware again. I just know that I’m there, watching, and then she’s something other than where she should be, having traveled further from me than she should be able to in that instant. When I do notice it, it’s kind of like watching a video on an unstable internet connection, with the sudden stalls and then attempts to catch up before it synchronizes itself again.

I find those lapses troubling, for I know how quickly children can get into trouble. It takes only an instant for something tragic to occur. As lonely as I might be here, in this strange sort of pseudo, spectral existence, I have no wish for her to join me here. As much as I miss her, I do not wish that for her. Not any time soon. Not ever, it was within my power.

It might be that it happens more often than I think, being perhaps a part of the experience of this kind of existence. I probably don’t notice it when she’s still or in one location, such as when she is coloring in one of her books. When she sleeps, I don’t know that I would notice it at all.

Still, it troubles me. But, again, there is no one that I can ask.

She breathes steadily as she sleeps, and my mind does wonder. I try not to dwell on the past, on the events of my life. It seems to me that returning again and again, reliving events over and over again, can only bring a despair and, yes, guilt over things that I can no longer change. Experiencing that for an eternity seems to me a path to madness—even if it is, perhaps, inevitable.

It’s hard, though, as I watch her sleep now, not to remember how she slept when she was first born and then as she grew, month by month, from a newborn into an infant and then into a toddler. Those flashes of memory come almost unbidden. I suppose I could prevent them entirely if I wished, but I don’t. They bring me—not comfort, exactly—but a connection, I suppose, to my past—to my past life, to be quite literal about it.

#

I expected it to be more difficult to see the people I loved, and those who knew me, go on with their daily lives without me in it. I suppose that’s to be expected when four years have passed. Even if some of the grief and sense of loss remains, that’s enough time for lives to regain their former shape—or to adapt to their new ones.

My son’s face sometimes betrays his loss. I don’t know whether it’s from memory that passes through his thoughts, or because I am not there to help him with a difficult task or to celebrate with him when he succeeds. He does not know that I am there when Jessica learns something new or shows off some new bit of knowledge or ability. I know that he wants to share those moments with me—for me to be there with him when they happen.

I try to tell myself that it would be the same had he moved away, for I would not have been present to witness these events. But I also know that is not wholly true. Were I still there in his living world, he could call me or share videos of them. Instead, he can only wish for that. I can only imagine the pain I have caused him in that and wonder, sometimes, whether I was perhaps too selfish and focused on my goal. I tell myself then, as I did before, that he is a grown man and able to better protect himself alone than Jessica could or can. Her safety and happiness are the reasons that I have done what I did. If there is someone sitting in judgment of me for that choice, they have not made their presence or opinion known.

I think it will be dawn soon. One thing that I’ve noticed about my new state of existence is that I find it difficult to measure time. Without the sensations that provide us clues as to the passage of the day—changes in temperature, lighting, air movement—time seems not to exist, except where it is apparent through the movement and motions of others.

Guardian (continued)

How do I travel?

I’m sure. I just do. It takes some effort, as I guess my new natural state (if that’s what it truly is) is to remain stationary, in one place, but that seems awfully boring for an eternity of non-corporeal existence. To go somewhere, I just think about where it is I want to be and then I go there. The experience is inconsistent, though. Sometimes I do get the sensation—no, the experience—of movement from one place to the other. Other times, it seems like I just transition from place to place. There might be a logic to it, like longer distances use a different method than shorter distances, but I haven’t really experimented with it to find out.

Contrary to what the movies might have you believe, I don’t see the insides of things as I pass through them—walls and such. I’m just suddenly aware that I’m on the other side. I suppose I should be grateful for that: I’m not sure I really want to see the meat and gristle of people and things as I pass through them. I’m not all that interested—and, frankly, I tend to be quite squeamish about such things. Or, at least, I used to be.

It’s kind of weird. It’s not as though I can simply materialize from one place to another—at least, I don’t seem to be able to instantaneously travel from, say, San Jose to Anaheim in an instant. Across the city, though, seems to work, although time does seem to pass while I’m in transit. I seem to travel at a constant speed between places—at least when I’m aware that I am actually moving between them. There’s no sensation of speed, such as the feel of the wind against my face, but it seems that I can travel between places at a certain speed and no faster. What that speed is, I’m not sure. I’ve never remembered to measure it. I can tell you that it’s not the speed of light, so there must be some other physical (in the sense of “physics”) limitation for it. I guess it makes sense that even the afterlife has to obey some kind of consistent physical laws.

I suppose these same laws are what prevent me from interacting with objects and people in the living world. Or maybe I just haven’t figured them out yet. Maybe it’s like magic: once you understand how it works, then you can use it. Or maybe only certain “ghosts” have the ability to manipulate the living world. I don’t know. And I wish I had someone to ask.

#

I watch over Jessica now as she sleeps. She murmurs sometimes as she dreams, even whimpering occasionally. It’s been said that children, particularly young ones, possess senses that they lose as they become adults. I don’t know whether it’s because they are not allowed to use them as they grow up, or whether those senses fade as part of a person’s natural evolution through their lifespan. If anyone could sense and communicate with the dead, it seems to me that it would be the very young and, perhaps, the very old. Both are very near to an existence of non-being—merely approaching it from different directions.

Listening to Jessica’s murmurs, I try to make sense of them. They occasionally sound like words, but most of them sound like the nonsense of a Lewis Carroll poem. Out of context, the few words that I think I understand make no sense. And of those, some of them are words that, at age four, she should neither know nor understand. She always was a bright girl, but even putting my prejudices as her grandfather aside, I can’t imagine a child of that age ever knowing or comprehending what those words mean. I am certain that misheard them.

She does seem particularly troubled by her dreams. I don’t see her smile in her sleep from them, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I remember, though, during latter part of her first year, when she would awake crying—full-on crying, with real tears and everything. Often, she would not even be fully awake. She would sit up in her crib, crying and with tears filling her eyes, until I comforted her by holding her and rocking her back to sleep. I remember those nights. As she tried to ease back into sleep, she would open her eyes, often only an instant, to see whether I was still there, and then close them again. As she was very, very young, and could not articulate her fears, all I could offer her were the comfort of my arms around her and soft promises that I would always be there to protect her.

And so I am. Perhaps not in the form in which I—or perhaps anyone—might have believed, but I am here, watching over her as she sleeps.

The days are harder. At night, the most I feel the need to do is to cover her again with her blanket. She never did like to be covered with them. I would pass her room on the way to the kitchen or my bedroom to find that, even on the coldest nights, she had kicked it away, leaving it in a jumbled heap at her feet. As a result, of course, we learned to dress her in warmer pajamas. I wish that I could hold her, to feel the movement of her body as she breathed in sleep. I wish that during the daytime hours as well.

Guardian (continued)

He remembered swallowing the pills, washing them down with a gulp of cranberry juice. Originally, he had considered taking them with a shot of good tequila or vodka, knowing that the alcohol would intensify the effects of the medication. Something stopped him, though. Perhaps the fear that it might not be believed that it was an accident if the autopsy showed that deliberate combination.

Afraid what the neighbors might think? he mused half-sourly and with an equal dose of irony.

Settling back against the seat, he closed his eyes. With slow, steady breaths, as if waiting for sleep to come, he waited for the effects of the medication to take hold. He knew, from his previous experiences with them, that it might take more than 30 minutes before he would feel the telltale signs of the drugs working in his system. He wondered whether he would last that long without panicking and calling for help.

He looked down at the phone in his hand considered tossing it out of the window to be lost somewhere in the shrubbery, forcing himself to commit to his own bravery. Or was it cowardice? he wondered now.

His hand tightened around the phone, obscuring its screen from his sight. He would wait.

It was hours later before they found the car. He was long since dead. They, of course, attempted to revive him, as they were professionally obligated to do, but the drugs had done their work. No amount of heroic efforts on the part of the rescue team could restore him to his body, so undo the chemical and physiological effects of the medication. He was dead. And there was nothing more they could do about it.

Jonathon took the news with surprising stoicism, Eleanor thought. She had made him call the police when his father had not returned from work that evening. He could tell them nothing more than where he worked and the route that he normally drove to come home. It was there, but some distance off the main road, that they had found the vehicle . . . and the dead body of the man who had been his father.

Guardian (continued)

It’s not at all how I thought it would be.

#

The ceremony was brief and somewhat well-attended. As happens throughout one’s life, people drift apart. Many people expressed their condolences for his death, but few of those attended the service. If he was well-loved as he had believed that he had been, the sparsely populated pews provided little proof of it. Still, of those who did attend, both family and friends, all spoke fondly and kindly of him.

It was a surprise to almost everyone. He had suffered some of the ailments that come from middle age, but none that should have proved fatal. As one less-than-tactful “mourner” noted, “The cure was worse than the disease.” The problem was: no one knew what the disease that he had suffered from was. To be coldly scientific about it, the autopsy reported that his death had been accidental, that the overdose of medication that had claimed his life was to blame, not any part of his aging body—aging and dying in the ways that we all do. Life, as they say, is always fatal in the end.

Jessica was too young to understand. Barely of the age where she could walk on her own, they did not know whether she understood that her grandfather was gone—that she would never see him again in this life after the burial. She did what all toddlers of that age do: she tried to emulate the solemnness of the adults around her, then became bored and wanted to be elsewhere.

“I didn’t know he had a drug problem.”

“I’m not surprised. He never did quite fit in.”

“It didn’t show. He seemed so . . . normal.”

Vague whispers, not meant to be overheard, but heard nonetheless.

“It’s so sad.”

“That little girl meant everything to him.”

“Now he’ll never get to see her grow up.”

None of them knew. None of them would have understood—no, not really.

She sat alone, the same way that she did in the medical examiner’s office that day, feeling many of the same things, remembering many of the same things from that day.

“The toxicology report shows an overdose of his pain medication—probably accidental, like he took a second dose, forgetting that he had taken the first one. Had he ever done that before?”

She had shaken her head. She could not remember the last time that he had used the prescription medication, but then he had not always told her. That the bottles that she had found still contained most of the pills that had been prescribed told her that he had not been abusing them, or been addicted to them—unless he had been managing to keep them refilled without her knowledge. Possible, she had considered, but it seemed fair from likely. There had been no unaccounted spending of funds from their joint account, nor had he been selling his belongings on the side—either covertly or with her knowledge. It didn’t seem to fit the facts. Or at least not what she wanted to believe.

The thing that scared her the most was how she was going to live without him. She had relied on him for nearly everything—to take care of the myriad trivial details of everyday life—and now she would need to figure out how to manage them all herself. Jonah would help—should help, she told herself—hopefully finally stepping up and doing his fair share around the house now that his father was no longer there to do it. She would need to spend more time with Jessica, as would he. That, perhaps, scared her even more, for she never really possessed any fondness for children. They were fine in small doses, but now . . . It was another one of those things that he had always taken care of.

Guardian

– 1 –

 

I don’t know what I expected death to feel like. I’m not sure we have the language to describe it—at least not in English.

I mean, I remember dying. I think. I remember feeling drowsy and then profoundly sleepy. After that I only remember . . . this.

Well, not exactly this.

I become awake . . . no, aware again. And now, sometime later, here I am.

I don’t feel disembodied, even though I imagine that I should. I clearly don’t have one any more—at least not a physical one. I clearly still exist though, and I feel like I have some mental . . . substance. But it’s not a body . . . or a brain.

See what I mean about our language not being to describe it?

Some time has clearly passed as well. I don’t know what happened during that period. I don’t if I was processed or judged or reincorporated or what, only that when I become aware again—or at least capable once again of retaining memories—almost seven years had passed on the world that I grew up on.

I don’t remember anything about a heading into bright white light or a meeting shining robed old man with a long beard. I remember something like falling asleep and then . . . now. Or the now not that long ago. I imagine that it’s different for everyone—I can’t imagine someone shooting themselves in the head not experiencing pain at their moment of death. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around that I can ask.

That’s the other thing that puzzles me: I haven’t encountered anyone else. Thousands of people die each day, certainly several dozen in this area of the world alone. You’d think that I would have picked up at least a hint of someone else by now. Being alone like this would be a hell of a way to spend eternity.

Not that I believe in Hell—or Heaven, for that matter. I never embraced any kind of religious beliefs. I didn’t care if others wished to put their faith in whatever deities they wanted to believe in, just so long as they didn’t demand that I obey their strictures . . . or Scriptures . . . or whatever. If they found comfort and solace and strength in that, so be it. I never ridiculed them for it. I just never accepted it as part of my life.

Do I feel like a disembodied spirit? No. And yes. I mean, I don’t feel as if I’m ethereal and non-corporeal, although I imagine that I must be. I can’t see myself, but I still feel like I’m, well, still here.

I can’t feel my pulse or heartbeat or have any particular urge to breathe. At least, I don’t have any sensation of breathing nor that panicked sense that I need to because I’ve stopped.

I suppose that it’s possible that I’m dreaming all this, but it doesn’t feel like any dream I’ve ever had. I’ve had regular dreams, fever dreams, effective dreams (or so they felt like), and medication-induced dreams. None of them ever felt like this. There is a consistent rational logic and presence to this that dreams rarely have. Other than for the seven-year gap in my “memories”, there have been none of the sudden “jumps” in location or scenery. People I observe behave as they should, appearing and acting as they did when I knew them as living.

They say that our emotions are controlled by our endocrine system. That fear and anxiety and dread and such are all the result of certain hormone and neurochemicals altering our blood chemistry so that we experience those emotions. I suppose that must be so. I haven’t really felt any of those since I reawakened. (I really don’t know the right word to use to describe it, as none of them seem to capture the nuances of the experience.) I suppose I feel . . . smoother (?) . . . no longer prone to the swings of emotion that I experienced when I was living. It wasn’t as if I was particularly manic then, but this is different. “Calm” doesn’t describe it well either. It’s almost as if I experience memories of feelings, but they don’t affect me as profoundly as they did before. It partially reminds me of how a family therapist once described it to me, based on his own experiences with anti-depressant medication. The feelings are still there, but they don’t trouble me. But that doesn’t really describe it either.

It’s not a state of dispassionate regard either. There’s definitely something like emotions there, but they’re . . . I don’t know . . . distant. But that doesn’t really describe it either. See again what I mean about lacking the language?

I’m not even sure why I’m trying to leave this log—or whether it will exist in any kind of tangible form that someone—living or not—can access and review. If someone living could read it, and prove its authenticity beyond a doubt, wouldn’t that just shake the core of many people’s beliefs and religions?

I’m not even sure that I am leaving a record of this. I’m thinking about it and it feels like it’s getting stored . . . somewhere. Heaven only knows where that “somewhere” is. (I mean that solely as a colloquialism, of course.) Maybe it’s only in my head . . . or mind . . . or whatever.

But enough with the philosophical and theological stuff.

Why am I here? You might have noticed by now that I don’t seem particularly surprised to be here—or rather, in this non-living state. It’s been said that some ghosts are the dead remaining on Earth (or the corporeal world, or however you personally choose to describe it) because they have unfinished business there. Their deaths may have been deliberate or unexpected, but that’s the reason that they continue to “exist” after their death in a form that can purportedly be seen.

That’s exactly where I fit in. Except that I don’t have any hard evidence that I’ve ever been “seen”. 

Sure, I’ve been looked at—or at least in the direction of—but I’ve never experienced a reaction that would imply that someone had witnessed my reappearance from beyond the grave. (Which reminds me that I suppose I should try to find out where mine is and visit it at some point.)

Childtime Institutions (continued)

She might have been pretty; he could not tell. Her face also appeared to be thin, although not as extraordinarily so as the first man. Her features had the fine, smooth lines and curves the Perez associated with femininity, but he knew from unfortunate experience that that was no guarantee.

“He is,” she agreed, although the tenor of her voice gave Perez no better clue as to her true gender.

The second one nudged Brandt with the toe of his boot. Brandt did not stir, even though Perez half-expected his fellow officer to suddenly lunge at their captors.

“He’s still out,” the second man said, pressing harder with his boot against Brandt’s stomach. He chuckled deeply, continuing to prod with his toe at Brandt. “Really out.”

“With as many darts as you stuck him with,” the third one said, “he’ll probably be sleeping it off until next Thursday.”

The second man snorted, kicking at Brandt’s chest now. “I’ll let Doc Car—”

“Be quiet, both of you,” the first man said. He did not raise his voice, Perez noted. Nor did his tone carry even a hint of common, but both of the others dropped into silence.

He strode forward and looked down at Perez.

“Officer . . . Perez,” he began, peering down at Perez’s uniform. “We have something we need you to do for us.”

Perez stared up at him. He bit off his first reaction, which was to tell the thin blonde man to go to hell, and waited instead silently for him to continue. Brandt moaned softly and Perez automatically looked toward him.

“He won’t help us,” the blonde man told Perez. “He doesn’t have the . . . spirit for it.” An odd smile danced across the blonde man’s lips as he said. “But we believe that you might.”

The second, stocky man made a noise.

“Some of us do, anyway,” the blonde man amended.

Perez shot a quick glance toward Brandt, but his fellow officer made no further sound.

A thin, tight smile replaced the one that been present on the blonde man’s face. “We may let him live,” he told Perez. “If you don’t help us, he will die for sure.”

The stocky man chuckled his deep chuckle again. Perez fought the urge to glare at him. At that moment, he simply wanted to deck the man. Perez knew that he was dangerous—he knew that they all were—but his kind he understood and knew how to deal with them.

“What do you want?” Perez asked hoarsely.

“A good question,” the blonde man smiled. His expression reminded Perez of nearly every image of every psychopath that he had ever seen.

The thin blonde man knelt down, but Perez still needed to look up at him in order to see his entire face.

“A very good question.”

Childtime Institutions (continued)

“I told you he was awake,” said one who stood near the front of the trio.

Perez judged him to be just under two meters tall. He was unnaturally thin, with short, close-cut blonde hair with dark ends. His fingers were unusually long and slender, much like Perez imagined a professional pianist’s might be. His eyes seemed unnaturally dark for someone with such fair skin and hair. Perez guessed that they contained either implants or encoded contact lenses.

The man to his left grunted in response. He was several centimeters shorter than the tall blonde man, with glossy dark hair brushed back over his head. He eyed Perez with a narrow-eyed look that the patrolman recognized. Given the chance, the man would like to beat Perez to death. Whether in a fair fight or not, Perez could not tell for certain, but the man had that almost feral look that he had seen too many times before.

Probably hopped up on exadrine as well.

The third member of the group stood between the other two in height. Stockier in build, it took Perez several moments to try to decide whether they were a man or a woman. Even then, he was not certain. A cap with camouflage pattern that matched her fatigues was pulled down tight over her head, hiding her hair. The brim of the cap cast a shadow across her features, making it even more difficult for Perez to tell for sure.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

They were military-style boots—with the emphasis on “style”. The ones that soldiers in the national armed forces wore were far less stylish, but much more durable. Perez doubted that these would last six months, assuming that they ever saw wear even remotely like real combat.

“Play soldiers,” he muttered.

There were, he figured, probably disgruntled rich kids from one of the exclusive secured enclaves on the northwest part of the city. Most of the citizens with any real wealth lived there, except for the even more select few who lived in the rocky hills that overlooked the coast. He wondered what their parents had denied them that had made them decide to become make-believe mercenaries.

Knowing this much, though, helped Perez in understanding how to deal with them. That they came from privileged backgrounds made them no less dangerous. In fact, they might behave even more impulsively from the belief that their social status—and parents’ money—could rescue them from almost any situation.

As they came closer, Perez saw that his guess had not only been right, but dead-on. None of them were older than twenty-five. All of their faces had that clean, scrubbed look that spoke of regular access to good soap and clean water. Very few who lived off the grid could claim that. Perez wondered whether he and Brandt were the first two officers that they had ever taken captive.

And we aren’t . . .

Following that thought to one logical conclusion caused his stomach to form a sudden knot. If this group had been responsible for the other unexplained disappearances . . .

Childtime Institutions (continued)

A new kind of fear gripped him, though. Rumors abounded about what happened to people in government “custody”. Harlin had always heard about them, shook his head in disbelief, and silently prayed that he would never find out for himself. Instead, it seemed, his family would.

Torn between fear for his family and anger, Harlin found himself paralyzed from action. All he knew was that government had taken his family. He still did not know why or where they had been taken. All that Antonovich had confirmed was that they had been taken, but that failed to answer any of his other questions.

He wanted to rage at something—or someone, but lacked any kind of specific target. His frustration with Antonovich was misplaced, he knew. And raging at the “government” would be equally ineffective without a specific person, or at least group, at which he could launch his fury. He pounded his fist against the front door in a steady rhythm. It accomplishment nothing useful in terms of helping him locate his family, but Harlin found that it did calm him a bit.

Flexing his hand, he felt the burning sensation from his punished muscles. Opening his palm, he stared at the phone again. Its display remained maddeningly dark and blank. Even if he wanted to call someone, what could they tell him? The police would likely have no official knowledge of the event, and which government agency should he contact?

His arm dropped to his side as he surrendered to the game that had been set up for him. He could do little, he realized, until someone contacted him. All he could do was to wait . . . and worry.

- X -

Perez’s head throbbed as consciousness painfully returned. His neck and shoulders ached, as did the back of head. He supposed that he should be grateful that he was still alive, but at that moment he was not at all sure that it was worth it. He tried to straighten up and discovered that his hands were bound behind him. Shifting his legs, he found that his ankles were fastened together as well. He turned the best that he could to find Brandt lying beside him about a meter away.

The large man remained still. A bright red streak of blood lined his left cheek. Perez had to look hard to determine whether or not Brandt was still breathing. He was, Perez was finally able to determine, with deep, regular breaths. Perez tried to imagine how hard they must have had to hit Brandt to put him out like that.

Or drugged, Perez realized, remembering the odd projectile noises near their vehicle. They must have been using tranq darts, he concluded.

That meant that whoever held them now had intended to capture them alive. Or, at least, not kill them while they did whatever it was that they had been in the neighborhood to do. That pretty much left out all of the more violent street gangs, he determined with some relief.

That doesn’t mean this batch isn’t just as crazy in some other way.

Almost every neighborhood housed some individual or group that fancied themselves to be some kind of “freedom fighter”. Most of them were harmless, posting the occasional gripe against some government policy or another, even occasionally making some small scene in public. Depending on the location and cause, the police forces were often as likely to ignore these or not. There were a few individuals, though, who resorted to more radical approaches to get their message across. These, unfortunately, Perez felt, gave the entire group a bad reputation. Even though an officer himself, sworn to uphold and protect the citizens and those very same laws, he had to admit that he did not agree wholeheartedly with some of them. He could not imagine himself having to arrest some eighty-year-old for protesting against the scheduled demolition of a building. It could very well happen, though, he knew, depending on the mood and whim of the department on that particular day and time.

Perez struggled to get himself into a seated position. It took some careful contortions and some effort, but he managed it. Once situated onto his backside, he scooted closer to Brandt.

Brandt remained unconscious. The blood that Perez had noticed before still appeared to be fresh. Now, he spied darker, dried patches on his partner’s forehead and cheek. He wondered how hard Brandt had struggled against his captors.

It must have happened here, he reasoned. Brandt had gone down without a sound back at their vehicle.

Perez tried to shift closer, to get a better look, but all he managed to succeed in doing was to nearly topple himself over on top of Brandt. He grunted, trying to find a more stable position, and swore to himself that someone would be wearing the cuffs around their neck as soon as he got the chance.

He looked again at Brandt, who still had not stirred. His breathing continued to be regular, but Perez saw no other movement from his fellow officer. He considered calling out to Brandt, hoping to wake him with the sound of his voice, but then decided against it.

No sense in calling their attention in here, he reasoned, glancing around the room now for surveillance cameras that he suspected had to be there.

He found none, but he knew that meant little. They could either be well-concealed, or there was only one installed, and he had missed seeing them. He glanced around the room again, examining it for any clues as to where they were and who might have brought them there.

The space was almost stereotypical in it plainness. Battered metal racks lined two of the walls. Each contained only a few objects, most of which Perez could not identify from where he sat on the floor. The room was dusty, but not filthy, which told him that it had been swept recently. Not within the past day or two perhaps, but probably within the last few weeks. There was nothing within the space that gave indication as to the identity of its owners.

It might not even be theirs, Perez considered. Maybe some kind of temporary safe house or sanctuary. It did not seem to have been equipped well enough for long-term use. He did realize, though, that he only saw one space. There could be, he considered, several more rooms adjacent to this one, any one of which could be a supply room, pantry, or worse, an armory.

Twisting his wrists experimentally, he heard the chain that connected the cuffs rattle quietly.

They have access to some basic equipment, at least, he thought wryly.

He saw nothing remarkable about the interior of the space, at least in the parts of it that he could see. Twisting his ankles experimentally again, he considered trying to rise to his feet, once he was certain that Brandt was okay. He would not be able to defend well if he encountered anyone, though.

Better than I can from down here.

Leaning over Brandt as best as he could without toppling over, Perez discovered no new bruises or bloodstains on Brandt’s face or his clothing. Whatever they had dosed Brandt with, he was still well under its influence. Turning his head away, a little too quickly, Perez wondered which of the two of them was the lucky one as his head throbbed.

Carefully, he attempted to slide his feet underneath him, enough that he could use them as leverage when he tried to stand. It took him several tries, as his ankles kept getting tangled together. Twice, they slipped out of position, the second causing him to wince when he thought he had dislocated it.

He had just about managed it when he heard rough footsteps enter the space from the other side of the metal shelves. Even before he saw them, he guessed how they would be dressed. He was not disappointed. Both of them were clad in paramilitary camouflage fatigues, but ones too tailored to fit to be standard issue or stolen. The sound of the boots had betrayed them. The footfalls that those thick rubber soles made were distinctive, particularly on gritty surfaces.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

- X -

Harlin found the garage empty. Rather, all of his family’s belongings stored there were present, but there was, once again, no sign of his family. He felt some mild relief at this, as he had half-expected to find their beaten and mutilated bodies dumped there.

Too many bad news reports, he told himself, finding hollow relief in that realization.

He finally convinced himself, after a careful search, that his family’s bodies were not tucked into some crevice between storage bins in the garage. The cabinets were all locked, and none of them looked to have been disturbed, so he did not bother to check those.

Enough is enough, he decided, and headed back into the house.

He closed and, without consciously realizing it, locked the door behind him. Standing there, he surveyed what he could see of the house and considered what to do next.

Call the police?

It seemed like the logical next thing to do, but he was concerned about potentially looking foolish if his wife had simply taken his children to the market and forgotten to leave a note.

“That’s so unlike her, though,” he murmured, recognizing immediately that he was attempting to rationalize the situation.

He swept the room with his gaze once, finding nothing different than he had before. No new evidence of what might have happened presented itself to him, no previously unnoticed clue.

Harlin’s hand went automatically to his chest, over his heart, when an abrupt knock sounded at the door. It was neither loud nor particularly strong, but more than enough to startle Harlin from his reverie.

He held still for a moment to both catch his breath and check his surroundings. Nothing had changed within the house, but there had been a knock at the front door. He was certain that he had not imagined it.

Cautiously, he approached the doorway and peered through the small peephole. The door was still unlocked, he realized, and he felt a little better. Had someone wanted to enter without first asking or announcing themselves, they could have done so easily.

“Stupid!” he mumbled softly.

He frowned as he peered through the tiny viewer. Outside the door stood Pavel Antonovich, their neighbors from the house immediately to their left. Harlin was surprised to see him for several reasons, not the least of which was the unusual timing of his visit when his family was missing.

Were they next door? Harlin wondered.

He had not considered it before as a possibility, for it had not seemed at all likely. During the eight years the Pavel and his family had lived next door to them, they had never once been inside one another’s homes. They had exchanged the occasional polite pleasantries when they might encounter each outdoors, but they knew almost nothing about one another.

That’s not entirely true, Harlin acknowledged silently. He and Sarah knew almost nothing about their neighbors on the left. They did not know how much the Antonovichs might know about them.

Harlin cautiously opened the door and looked down at the stout little man. Before he could speak, though, Antonovich told him, “They are not here. Taken.” His voice dropped to a hoarse breath of a whisper. “Taken.”

Harlin stared down at Antonovich. He tried to comprehend the words that the man had spoken, to put them into some kind of context. Then, a sharp chill washed through him as he understood.

Someone had taken his family.

He continued to gaze down at Antonovich without speaking. Finally, he was able to speak.

“Taken,” he repeated in a whisper. “By who?”

“Them,” Antonovich replied, stating the single word as if it explained everything.

Harlin looked down at him in confusion.

“Them,” Antonovich repeated, a bit more forcefully. It was clear that he thought that Harlin might understand his meaning, along with all of its nuances, with the repetition of the word.

Harlin shook his head slightly, unwilling to accept the most likely explanation. Antonovich held his gaze, as if by his will alone he could get Harlin to understand.

“The government?” he whispered, feeling suddenly very exposed and vulnerable.

Antonovich nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Your government.”

Harlin’s legs began to tremble and he nearly staggered backward, but caught himself. It made no sense. The government had no reason to seize his family. He owed no delinquent taxes, his position in the company gave him no access to any secrets. He was not even certain that his company did not direct business with the government. Of course, he realized, every company did business with the government to some degree. His children, certainly, could have done nothing. And Sarah . . .

He stopped, puzzling that one out for a moment. Sarah had remained at home to care for their children. It had not only been a necessity, as the costs for child care outside the home would have more than exceeded their income. Also, while the company workplace had little room for woman at all, it had almost none for women who might have to divide their time—and their loyalties—between the company and their family.

Could Sarah have done something? he wondered. But what?

“I do not know,” Antonovich said, and Harlin wondered for a moment whether he had described his suspicions aloud.

“They were taken,” Antonovich said. “The white vans,” he went on. “All of them.”

Antonovich turned his head from side to side, glancing along the perimeter of the neighborhood.

“I must go now,” he said. Without giving Harlin another look, he turned and headed down the short paved walkway, back toward his own home.

Harlin watched him go, waiting until the diminutive man had returned to and entered his own house, before he closed the door. He stared down at the worn carpeting, trying to understand. Government agents had seized his family, taking them away—taking them . . . somewhere.

He looked around the room again.

They must have taken them quickly.

The subtle signs of interruption, but the lack of total disorder, could be explained by what Antonovich had told him. The agents had come swiftly, gathered his family, and then left.

Why had no one called him?

He reached down and pulled out his phone. Its list of recent calls showed no incoming calls since the day before. Sarah had not had time to call him, nor had any of the children.

So why hadn’t—

He stared down at the phone in his hand, allowing its screen to go blank from non-use.

Who else would have called him? he realized. He knew none of his neighbors well and none of them, he was fairly certain, knew him—at least not his telephone number. They had all witnessed the event and said nothing—except for Antonovich.

But then how could they? Harlin considered morosely. Even if they could have reached him, it was doubtful that they would have risk either themselves or their families in order to inform him.

He continued to stare down at the phone, wondering whether he should still call the police. More than likely, he presumed, they would be contacting him. He hoped that it would be soon.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

Its long silver chain glistened with reflected light. For a moment, Sarena hesitated to pick it up, but then could not resist. Its length draped over her hand as she lifted it. Beneath it dangled the tiny pendant of a small bird in flight.

A sparrow, Sarena thought, although she really did not know for certain.

It spun as it dangled from the chain, turning slowly from left to right. Sarena found herself drawn to it, but she did not know why. She found the clasp, opened it, and placed the chain around her neck. The tiny bird fell just above the curve between her breasts. That seemed perfect, she decided, and closed the clasp, letting the necklace settle into place.

Turning, she admired it in the tall mirror mounted between two of the chests. Standing there, she felt both more and less naked at the same time. Sarena stared at it for several moments, lost in a mindless reverie.

She did not know what broke her out of it, but she suddenly felt very exposed and very alone. She turned quickly to the bed and pulled the long tunic over her head. She chose the scarf and tied it around her waist, discovering that the cut of the outfit accented the curves of her body. Its neckline dropped lower than she was accustomed to, but then, she realized she had never before owned such clothes or not been concerned foremost about keeping warm. The sparrow remained exposed, which she found that she liked, and decided that the tunic must have been designed that way.

Feeling better now that her nudity was at least partially covered, Sarena began to search the drawers for other items. To her surprise, she discovered almost nothing in the way of undergarments. The few of them that she did find seemed impractical for everyday wear, providing very little in the way of comfort or support. The ones made of a dark leather-like material she did not understand at all.

Although it made her uncomfortable to do so, she opted for no underwear at all, hoping that maybe she could request some more suited to her preferences. Going without them made her feel surprisingly naked beneath her clothes, but she decided that she could tolerate it for a little while.

Maybe . . . she wondered, and was interrupted by a sound at the door.

She heard an audible click. Her throat grew tight and she wondered whether if she was finally being locked inside. She turned as the door swung open. Kayla stood in the doorway, silently appraising Sarena with her eyes. Sabena fought back a shiver. There was something in the young woman’s gaze that made her uncomfortable. She had not quite noticed it before, but Sabena noticed it clearly now.

“You need shoes,” Kayla announced and stepped into the room. The door closed behind her. “And . . .” she paused, silent assessing Sabena again. “A lot more,” she finished with a grim smile. “But let’s start with the shoes.”

Childtime Institutions

They appeared well-made, not like the inexpensive, do-it-yourself furniture that she was accustomed to. The comforter, window curtains—actual curtains—all spoke of wealth and a willingness to spend it.

Moving further into the room, Sarena discovered the small bathroom. It was only slightly larger than the one that she had shared with her entire family, but everything within it was polished and shone. There were no cracked or missing tiles, no stains of mildew and rot, and the rugs on the floor looked as new and even more plush than the carpet beneath her feet. The transparent glass enclosure of the shower was so clean that it was nearly invisible.

She looked around the entire space, trying to absorb it all. There were no windows, but its lighting prevented it from feeling as enclosed as it was. It felt as if natural light streamed in from somewhere above, which, for all Sarena, it very well might be. The room was small, but, if Sarena was right, she would have it all to herself—a luxury that she had never before known.

Sarena’s head buzzed, unable to take it all in. She had seen images of such places on the ‘net and in old magazines. While she could have imagined possibly visiting one during her lifetime, never would she have conceived of herself actually living in one, even by force—particularly by force. She turned, realizing that the door has closed behind her. Panic swelled inside her and she reached for it, tugging on the handle embedded within the door. It opened easily to reveal the empty hallway beyond it. Sarena almost wept with relief without quite knowing why.

And then she understood. She was not trapped her. At least, she was not being locked inside her room like a caged animal. She did not know whether it could happen—or would happen—but for now, she could open the door at her own will. She wondered then if it could be locked. A quick glance did not reveal any kind of locking mechanism, but that did not mean that there was not one. It could be controlled, she knew, from some other location, like the cells in a prison block. That thought sent a new chill of fear down her spine. As lushly furnished as it might be, the place might still be her prison. She just did not know . . . yet.

Turning back toward the bathroom, she eyed the shower, remembering Kayla’s instructions. She suddenly became aware of her own aroma, something which she had come to be able to ignore. Here though, in this clean and decorated space, it seemed like an affront, something that needed to be dispelled and dealt with.

She stepped into the alcove, blinking when the lights flickered into brightness upon her entry. She stood there, allowing her eyes a few moments to adjust against the sudden assault of illumination. The fixture gleamed now even more than they had from outside the space. It felt almost like a sin to disturb or utilize any of them. She felt a growing urgent need, though, not having been allowed to use a toilet since they have been rousted from their beds the night before. She hesitated and then allowed her basic biological needs to win out over awe.

When she finished with that, nervously listening as the flow of the water seemed to echo loudly within the small room, she looked once more at the shower stall. It controls were unfamiliar, but appeared to be obvious. There were three handles, two of which were each marked clearly with either a blue or red ring. She assumed that these meant what they always did and turned the handles. Water began to cascade from the twin shower heads above her, drenching the sleeve of her tattered shirt. She yanked her arm out of the shower, cursing herself for her own stupidity. She should have known better, she knew, resisting the urge to wring the water out onto the plush mat beneath her.

Stepping back from the shower, but with enough presence of mind to close the door so that water would not spray out onto the bathroom floor, Sarena looked for somewhere to put her clothes. There was no obvious place for them, and she did not want to put them back on after showering. She remembered that Kayla had told her that she find clothes for her in the room. Sarena had not seen any, but realized that they must be stored in the closet or chests.

She remained still, trying to decide what to do. The water was already running in the shower, but she did not want to wear anything that she still wore when she was done. Her eyes spied the short stack of towels and she decided that would be enough for the short trip back out into the main area of the apartment.

She undressed slowly, pausing to fold each item of her clothing onto a neat pile. Although she might never wear them again, she did not know that for certain. She wanted them nearby, just in case.

Naked now, she paused to examine herself in the two full-length mirrors mounted in a corner of the alcove. Dirt streaked her skin, but it could not hide the twin swells of her breasts or the unshaven patch of hair between her legs. She had never seen herself that way before, even at the clinic. She found the sight oddly compelling. In her mind’s eye, she could see past the snarled strands of hair and the tracks of grime on her flesh. She wondered, though, if that was who she really was underneath.

She looked down, feeling somewhat ashamed. Such vanity was for other girls, for those who had wealth and power—like those who apparently dwelled here. She knew of her girls her own age who sold their bodies to others so they could look nice and dress pretty, but she the thought of giving herself to someone like that made her feel vaguely ill. That she might now be in such a situation she tried not to consider . . . at least not yet.

After a moment she looked up and turned back toward the shower. She paused, struck by the sight before her.

Steam rose from behind the transparent barrier, misting its surface with fine droplets. Sarena could not remember the last she had taken a hot shower. The water at her family’s home had always been lukewarm at best, and only when the sun heated the exposed pipes through which the water flowed. During the cold seasons, it was almost intolerable. During the winter months, she would go several days at a time without bathing. She could still remember huddling under layers of blankets afterward, trying to recover from the deep chill that filled her body afterward.

Stepping to the shower now, she wondered if she had made it too hot. The air around her felt moist now, but it cooled the moment that it touched her skin. She opened the door cautiously and tentatively reached her hand inside. The water stung and she almost jerked her hand back. She managed to hold it in place, though, to test the true temperature of the water.

It was hot, perhaps warmer than she had intended it to be, but not intolerable. Sarena reached further in and adjusted it, and then let out a relieved sigh when the water’s temperature became much more comfortable. She stepped into the stall and closed the door, breathing deeply, allowing the warm, moist air penetrate her nostrils. She stepped into the spray, feeling as though she could sense every pore on her body as the hot water washed over them.

Inside the shower, nestled on small shelved alcoves, were several containers in varying sizes. Some of these she understood. She knew what body wash and shampoo were, although she did not understand why there was a variety of ones to choose from. She found one labeled “conditioner”, but did not understand what that one was for, so she left it alone.

She was able to wash the grime from her body quickly, allowing herself two uses of a lightly scented body wash from a translucent blue container. Her hair, however, required a great deal more effort. Even when she was sure that its surface was clean, it remained tightly snarled in several places. She winced in pain several times as she attempted to use her fingers to loosen the worst of the tangles. She tried to work quickly, afraid that the warmth of the water might vanish at any moment. Finally, she washed it one more time, hoping that there would be a thick hairbrush in one of the room’s many drawers.

Sarena did not know how long she remained under the shower’s spray. When she finally turned it off, deep wrinkles lined the inside of her fingers and toes. She could not remember that last time she had seen herself like that, except for when she had washed dishes at the hotel restaurant for a short time about two years earlier.

She opened the door and felt an immediate chill. She quickly reached for one of the towels and wrapped it around her, wiping at the water that remained on her skin in order to warm herself. The towel was thick and luxurious, far from the thin and worn scraps of cloth that she had used at home.

It took her only moments to towel herself dry, except for her hair. It required mental effort to convince herself that, yes, she could use another towel for that. If she wanted, she could probably use them all right then and no one else would suffer for it. She dried her hair as best she could and then roughly wrapped the second towel around it. Draping the other towel around her body, she headed back into the main room to locate the promised clothing.

She opened the closet first and then stepped back in astonished surprise to study its contents. Arrayed within it where a variety of tunics and dresses, each sorted by color. The selection included lightweight blouses that looked ideal for warm weather to full-length dresses that Sarena could imagine only being worn to a Governor’s Ball. Just looking at them, she had no idea whether any of them would fit her. None of them, though, seemed appropriate for the moment. Or rather, she had no idea which one might be appropriate. She hoped that Kayla could tell her.

The thought of the young woman made Sarena suddenly feel acutely aware that she wore nothing more than two towels. Glancing through the selections in the closet again, Sarena removed a long, pale green tunic. It looked long enough to hang down to her knees. As she needed, she determined, was some kind of belt or sash to gather it around her waist. She placed it carefully onto the bed and began searching the drawers.

She discovered a wide variety of accessories and jewelry. Overwhelmed by the choices, she could not decide whether to choose a turquoise belt or a pastel rainbow scarf to use with the tunic. The jewelry she chose to ignore, having never owned or worn any, and uncertain what might or might not be appropriate. And then her gaze fell onto a necklace.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

As they walked, she continued looking at each of the doors, and into the occasional alcove, trying to find some clue as to the kind of people who lived here. She was not completely naïve, of course, trying to distance herself from those thoughts, but still she wanted to know something about the people who were about to become her companions.

“This is yours,” Kayla told her, gesturing toward a doorway on their right. It was the second to the last one from the end of the hallway and Sarena wondered whether that had any particular significance to her position there.

“Bathe,” Kayla instructed her, wrinkling her nose noticeably. “You’ll find clothes,” she added. “And then stay here. I’ll come back for you.”

She turned away without waiting to see whether Sarena understood and strode purposefully back down the hallway.

Sarena watched her go for a moment and then turned back to face the door. Staring at it, she discovered that it did not have a handle with which to open it. Her heart sank, realizing that any semblance of privacy was probably gone from her life now. She pushed hard against the dull-surfaced plate where the handle should have been and then stopped in surprise when the door did not open.

Studying the panel, she tried again—with the same results. She peering down the hallway, looking to see whether Kayla was still there, and wondered how the woman would react when she returned to find Sarena still standing in the hallway outside the door, still unbathed and in the same tattered and soiled clothing.

Sarena wondered if Kayla was supposed to have given her some kind of key, but had forgotten to leave it with her in her haste to leave. She turned back to the door, studied it for a moment, and then tried again. Again, the door remained closed.

Experimentally, she pressed harder on the plate, pushing until the tension in her fingers was almost painful. The panel suddenly depressed slightly, something clicked inside the door, and it began to open.

Sarena pulled her hand away as if the door panel had carried a charge. It had not, in fact, shocked her. Instead, it had only startled her with its sudden movement. Cautiously, she took a step backward and then peered into the room through narrow gap between the door and the doorframe.

She could see almost nothing of the room’s interior through the narrow gap. What it mostly revealed was a wall, a neutral beige or white in color, but that was all she could discern of what lay beyond the door. Carefully, she pushed lightly on the door, opening it only a few additional centimeters. The door, though, did not stop. Instead, it opened nearly all of the way, leaving Sarena to stare into what was to be her new home.

The interior was dim and filled with deep gray shadows. The amount of furniture that it appeared to contain surprised, for she had expected little more than a small bed and perhaps small chest of drawers. What she saw instead differed greatly from her vision.

The bed was wider than she had expected. She guessed that the mattress was at least a double in width and wondered why she might need such a large one.

Am I going to be sharing the room?

Although it was possible, that she might have the share the room—and the bed—seemed unlikely to her, based on the general extravagance that she had witnessed so far within the complex. Sarena stepped inside, pausing just inside the doorway, and looked around.

What appeared to be a sizable closet was on the opposite wall from the bed. Two chest of drawers and a smaller cabinet near the bed were the first pieces other furniture that she noticed.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

“Brandt!” he called out, still trying to keep his voice low. When no response came after several seconds, he called out again, raising his voice a bit more. “Brandt?”

Brandt did not answer him, but a moment later something spanged against the rear of the vehicle again. The sound did not reverberate as much this time, giving Perez even less of an idea what it might be.

Rubber bullets?

That seemed unlikely, he decided, but had no better explanation as yet.

“Brandt!” He shouted this time, not caring if he might be heard by someone else.

He tried to peer past the vehicle again, but dared not rise above whatever little cover it seemed to provide for him at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he threw himself into a roll, silently hoping that he had judged the distance correctly.

He hit the side of the vehicle hard, slamming into it with his back. That was how he had planned to learn, but not with quite as much force. It stunned him for an instant, leaving him unable to breathe. He fought back against a surge of panic, fearing that he might not recover before someone took another shot at him.

Something slid along the gravel beneath the vehicle, but did not seem to make it all the through. At least, Perez did not see anything come out on his side. He had a sudden mental image of the car suddenly exploding into flames and wondered whether he might safer away from the vehicle after all.

Too many Tom Cruise movies . . .

He discovered that he was holding his breath and let it out when the vehicle did not ignite around him. As he was still unhurt, he guessed that whoever was aiming at the vehicle was still on the opposite side from him.

“Or reinforcements haven’t arrived yet,” he whispered almost under his breath.

Damn it, he cursed, wondering, Where is Brandt?

Unable to reach the radio inside the vehicle, he reached up and tapped the controls of the one mounted on his shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it when he all he heard was a wash of static.

Jammed? he wondered, glancing upward. Or those damned cell towers.

The signal towers were supposed to be encrypted and secure. Which meant, Perez knew, that it simply took an additional day or two for some hacker to penetrate them each time the security algorithms were changed. To convert them to scramble signals, rather than to enhance them and pass them on, was one of the first tricks that the hackers had learned.

Right after intercepting and broadcasting phantom calls, Perez remembered.

Unable to signal now for backup, Perez turned toward the edge of the vehicle, silently judging how many centimeters he would have to traverse to get there. It was a short distance, but one during which he would be noisy and vulnerable. There was no easy way to cross silently over the road’s crumbling surface.

Where was Brandt anyway?

Perez tried to shake off the hollow feeling that his partner was not going to be coming to his rescue.

I’m not even sure I can come to my own, he thought wryly.

Another spang, this time across the top of the vehicle, made up his mind for him. Perez gripped his weapons and shuffled, still kneeling, toward the corner of the vehicle. It turned out to be a wise decision, as something ricocheted off the glass of the window right above where his head had been.

He reached the edge of the vehicle safely and then turned and surveyed the area that faced his side of the vehicle. He saw no one out in the darkness.

Which is exactly how they want it.

Perez paused and then looked carefully around the edge of the vehicle.

He saw no one, which disappointed him. He had hoped to at least see Brandt’s body sprawled out on the ground. It was not there, which only made wonder more about where his partner for the evening might be.

Something spinged across the top of the vehicle directly above his head. It skittered across the rough roadway, but Perez could not see what it was or where is eventually landed. There were closing in on him, he recognized, which did not surprise him.

A sound came from behind him: the unmistakable sound of boots on loose gravel. Perez turned automatically toward the sound, expecting to find Brandt there. He barely had time to identify that it was not before the figure reached out and struck him. Darkness consumed Perez almost instantly, giving him a moment to regret that he had seen his girlfriend one more time before he died.

- 9 -

Sarena saw no one else as she passed down the hallway. She found it difficult to believe, for there appeared to be several rooms, that no one besides Kayla lived here. Her reticence at accepting Sarena did not seem to be driven by jealousy. Nor, Sarena considered, did it seem to come from the dissatisfaction of someone accustomed to living alone. The space had clearly been designed to house others.

“Where are they?” she whispered to herself aloud.

“Working,” Kayla answered flatly, with just a hint of diadain.

Sarena did not realize that she had spoken loud enough to be heard.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

“What is it?” he asked. It came out as a hoarse whisper.

“Nothing,” Brandt replied slightly louder, but still far below his usual blustering tone. “Just goddamned nothing.”

He remained standing there, staring into the darkness. He seemed to be mumbling something, but Perez was too far away to hear him clearly. Perez stepped forward and then froze as something whanged off the back of their vehicle. An instant later, he had dropped into a crouch. The bright, needle-thin laser from his gunsight swept across the darkness.

Perez could not see Brandt, but heard movement from behind him that he hoped came from the other officer. His vantage point from where he crouched prevented him from seeing the back of the vehicle. He was too far from the vehicle to use it as an effective shield. It would require him to exercise a serious body roll to reach it, and it would leave him exposed and unable to defend himself until he had regained his equilibrium. Even then, he could not be certain which direction the attack had come from. He might be no better protected than he was now, except that he would now have the vehicle at his back, possibly making him and an even easier target.

Turning his head to the side, he tried to get a glimpse of Brandt. In the bright twin streams of light coming from the headlights, it was difficult for Perez to see anything not directly contained within them. He did not see Brandt. Or, at least, no shape that seemed large enough to have been Brandt.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

Brandt had already opened his door and was climbing out of the vehicle. Breathing in a slow sigh, Perez did the same, although with a great deal less enthusiasm than his partner had displayed. Moving around to the front of the vehicle, Perez found Brandt, standing in the bright wash of light coming the vehicle’s headlights, staring into the darkness ahead. From the way Brandt’s eyes turned from side to side, sweeping the illuminated area with his gaze, Perez could tell that his partner had found nothing.

“I’m going in,” Brandt announced hoarsely. His hand moved down to rest on his weapon, stopping just short of actually drawing it.

Perez mirrored his partner’s actions automatically. “I’ve got you covered,” he responded to Brandt, while not quite sure what he might be covering the large man against. He had still not seen anything.

“Oh god,” he whispered aloud, almost as a prayer. Don’t let it be a cat.

It would not be the first time that an officer on edge had shot and killed someone’s pet in an instant of surprise. Perez had not done it himself, but he had come close on at three occasions. Such reactions could, of course, keep an officer safe and alive—it could also end up costing the city several thousand dollars. Lately, though, judges were becoming less and less likely to rule in favor of the citizen. If people were careless enough to let their pets roam free in a designated curfew zone, then they should not be surprised if they occasionally got fired on by police officers on edge trying to protect their own lives.

Brandt moved a little deeper into the darkness and then swore softly. Perez stiffened at first, ready to bring his weapon up. When nothing happened to Brandt, he relaxed somewhat, but his hand remained on the handle of his weapon.

Childtime Institutions (continued)

Beth carefully stroked Jessica’s hair away from her daughter’s forehead, feeling the heat of the fever beneath her fingers. She looked over at the pillow and felt a small swell of relief when she saw it dotted with only a few dark stains. Jessica’s nosebleed did not seem to be as bad, nor had lasted as long, as Beth had first feared.

Still, Beth told herself. I’d better have it checked out.

She had never seen one accompanied with a fever before. That part of it worried her.

Faint footsteps sounded behind her at the door. She turned to find, as she expected, to find Annalise standing there, Beth’s phone looking unnaturally large in the child’s small hand. Once that she was sure that Beth was looking at her, she held out the phone to her mother.

Beth took it gently, while offering her youngest daughter what she hoped was a faint, but reassuring smile. Annalise did not appear to accept it.

“Is Jessie going to die?” the young girl whispered. The words cracked slightly as she spoke them, as if the young girl had trouble getting them out.

A chill wave of fear and panic washed through Beth. She almost shivered, managing to only barely tremble. She stared back at Annalise, trying to control both her own reaction and how to best phrase her response to her daughter.

“No,” she told Annalise, forcing a confidence that she did not yet wholly feel into her tone. “She’s not going to die,” she went on. “She’s just sick.”

“Granma Eve got sick,” Annalise countered.

She seemed more inquisitive than scared. Beth was not quite sure what to make of that, unwilling yet to just attribute it to childhood innocence.

“Yes,” Beth answered quietly. “Yes, she did.” She took a short, shallow breath as she glanced over toward Jessica before turning her attention back to her youngest daughter. “But she was also very, very old,” she explained, surprised at the flat tone in her voice. “And old people die.”

Bryan’s mother Eve had been very old, even unusually old any more, surviving well into her eighties before the cancer finally consumed her.

Annalise’s gaze fixed on her sister. Beth opened her mouth to speak and then stopped, wondering whether Annalise might see Jessica, almost ten years older than she was as “old”.

I wonder how she sees me then, Beth considered wryly.

She offered her youngest daughter yet another smile, this one somewhat more sincere, if not less laced with deep concern.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” she told Annalise. “Go have a seat at the table,” she instructed her calmly. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Annalise studied Beth’s face, and then Jessica’s resting form, before she turned slowly away and padded back down the hallway. Beth watched her go, silently praying that what she had just told her daughter would be true.

- 8 -

Perez sat quietly in car, grunting only occasionally to ensure that Brandt did not question him too much, as they patrolled the streets that night. The dispatch radio filled the silence with a steady stream of background noise, an ongoing series of requests and updates, but none directed to them. It was a quiet night on their patrol route. That was, Perez discovered, both unusual and not. There sector was not particularly one of the more active hotspots, but things did happen there.

Just not tonight, Perez mused.

Although he was in no particular rush to put himself in danger, almost anything would have been a welcome relief from his partner’s steady stream of political and social opinions. Brandt clearly did not know—or, more likely, simply did not care—that more than a little of what spouted from his mouth would have gotten him knifed—or worse—in many parts of the neighborhood where Perez and his girlfriend lived. His fingers stroked the handle of his weapon for a moment.

Can I make it look like an accident?

He was far from serious in that thought, of course, although it had been known to happen.

Feeling a twinge of guilt at having even entertained the idea for an instant, he moved his hand away from his weapon and instead rested it on the door handle. Beside him, Brandt continued to drive, giving as more attention to the road, to Perez’s relief, than he did to the logic of his arguments.

They were nearly finished with their patrol through one of perimeter neighborhoods when Brandt suddenly slowed the vehicle. Perez pulled himself from his reverie and looked around, seeing only a dark street ahead of them. All of the overhead street lights were out in that immediate area, either from deliberate action on part of the neighborhood’s inhabitants or, equally likely, Perez knew, lack of maintenance from the city. Even through public funds were allocated for public safety, there were some areas where the city work crews refused to enter. Enforcement was almost impossible, with the only other option being that the work crews be assigned a police escort. Since there they were already not enough officers to perform the basic patrol routes, such assignments rarely happened unless one politician or another needed to get some positive press.

“What are you doing?” he asked Brandt, dropping his voice to whisper without realizing it.

At first, Brandt seemed to ignore him. The officer peered into the darkness of the street, looking intently for something visible beyond the range of the vehicle’s spotlights.

“Brandt?” he whispered hoarsely. “What is it?”

“Shh,” Brandt hushed him, turning in his seat as he tried to get a better look at whatever it was that he thought he had seen outside of their vehicle.

Perez grimaced, looking hard into the darkness himself now. He saw nothing unusual, but then he had no idea what it was that he was looking for.

“What did you see?” he finally asking, tired of waiting for his partner to volunteer information.

“Don’t know,” Brandt whispered back. “Something.”

Perez resisted the urge to roll his eyes. While he had seen nothing unusual, he suspected that it had been a dog or some other animal darting off into the night at their approach.

“Something,” Perez repeated, trying not to sound irritated.

Brandt nodded, still staring into the darkness, his head swinging slowly from side to side as he continued to fail to find it.

“It was probably someone’s cat,” Perez offered.

“Too big,” Brandt responded. “I think it was a person.”

Perez checked the clock display. It was past curfew. Anyone still out on the streets without a waiver or not on some kind of official business was technically violating the new statutes. They were, Perez knew, enforced with widely varying levels of regularity and severity.