Chapter 37
The boy ran across the wheat field in stumbling steps, the heads of grain lashing his face, his wet clothes dragging him down, the rough soil stealing his footing.
His bare feet were raw and cut open by the fallen awns.
He swallowed his tears. He trembled, but he didn’t take off the bandana wrapped around his head.
He just kept running straight ahead, blind—because he’d been told to.
It wasn’t just the fear twisting in his gut that made him cry—it was the shame, too.
His dad always told him he was a brave boy—yet his trousers were reeking of pee and shit.
How could he stand in front of his parents?
In front of his dad—the cop who fights the bad guys, the one people respect?
Even the teachers at school treated him differently because he was the son of the local Chief of Police.
He bit his lower lip, because the mocking words looping through his mind made his skin flush.
He was dizzy and exhausted. He wanted his mom to stroke his hair and read him his favorite story.
He wanted his pajamas with the superheroes on them and his soft bed.
He wanted his room, full of toy cars and soldiers.
His body was already numb to the mosquitoes—he had been hanging in the void for two days, and the tiny vampires had sucked as much blood out of him as they could.
His skin had itched for a long time. He had been shouting and crying…
He wanted the ordeal to be over—the game the man kept whispering about, his name breathed into the boy’s ear.
The man wanted him to remember his name forever: Chase Baker.
That’s what made him piss himself for the first time: the sound of the man whispering.
He would never forget those horrible days, or that woman.
She terrified him the most, so much, that sometimes his breath even stopped when she was there.
Her laughter was rough and scary—it sounded like two pebbles grinding against each other. The whole barn echoed with it.
An icy chill ran down his spine, and hot tears streamed over his scared, flushing face.
His heart was pounding in his throat—he could hear it in his ears.
He pressed his tiny fists against his sides.
His legs were tired, and his throat and lungs burned.
He tasted metal. He wanted to give up, to collapse in the darkness in the middle of nowhere.
But on his next step, the road disappeared, and his weak, overheated body plunged into cold, muddy water.
He opened his mouth wide and sucked in filthy water.
He grabbed a patch of grass and hauled himself out of the water, coughing. He panted, each breath wheezing, his heart racing, and his ears ringing.
Anger took over—it blanketed his mind like toxic smoke. He yelled. He felt brave and strong. He tore the bandanna from his eyes, yanked off his T-shirt, and kicked off his dirty pants and underwear. He threw the reeking rags into the filthy water, then waded back in. He hid every sign of his shame.
He was proud of himself. He straightened up, just like his dad taught him. Like a soldier. He jutted his chin and pressed his fists to his sides. But the next moment, he felt small and fragile again, like a tiny insect.
“Where are your clothes, Jason?”
He couldn’t see her face, but deep down he could feel her smiling, her warm breath burning against his cold skin.
His pride shattered into pieces. Warm pee ran down his trembling legs, making him shiver.