Chapter 2
Samuel
Samuel reached his assigned workstation and set the thick orientation packet down on the bare laminate surface before lowering himself into the chair.
Everything about the space felt too exposed; the relentlessly open layout, the token half-walls separating the desks, the clear, unimpeded sightline Gael Wise would have directly into his pod if the man walked past at any moment.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to settle the frantic thrum running like a live wire under his skin. It didn’t settle. His heartbeat hammered in his chest, a frantic, off-rhythm percussion that felt completely out of sync with the quiet hum of the floor.
He reached for the packet, intending to ground himself by reading through the first page of policies, but his fingers hesitated midair, trembling slightly.
He forced them forward anyway. When his fingertips finally touched the edge of the cardstock cover, the entire stack of papers shifted minutely beneath the faint, involuntary tremor in his thumb.
He stilled, his breath catching in his throat.
He hadn’t realized how much his hands were shaking until he saw the physical evidence.
Samuel curled them into a tight fist, pressing the knuckles hard against the muscle of his thigh. The fine tremor traveled up from his hand, into his wrist, a small, persistent pulse of adrenaline that refused to stop no matter how tightly he clenched his hand, how hard he pressed down.
He inhaled again; a short, sharp pull of air that was too fast.
He exhaled; a ragged, uneven release.
He tried it again, forcing the rhythm.
Nothing smoothed out. His body was a separate entity, disobeying direct commands.
He blinked hard, trying to force the world back into focus, but the office around him didn’t quite snap back into place.
The overhead LED lights seemed to strobe, too bright and glaring in spots, dimmer and hazy in others, as if the room itself was breathing unevenly.
The distant chatter flattened into a dull, oppressive hum against his eardrums.
He rubbed a damp palm over his face and leaned his elbows onto the cool desk, letting his head drop forward slightly.
He wanted to shake it off, to just reset his entire nervous system like flicking a switch, but his body wasn’t listening. It was reacting on a primal level, without his permission. His breathing felt high and thin, stuck somewhere high in his chest, above his ribs, refusing to fill his lungs.
He sat back suddenly, his spine stiffening against the unyielding chair. The abrupt movement made his pulse jump erratically.
Not here.
Not on the first day.
Not in the middle of the fucking office.
He stood abruptly, the chair rolling back and hitting the half-wall with a soft thud.
He headed for the nearest corridor without a clear destination.
His footsteps felt too loud, each one echoing sharper and more clumsily than they should against the sound-dampening carpet.
He ducked into the men's bathroom before anyone could stop him or ask if he was alright, the door swinging shut behind him.
He braced his hands on the cold, polished edge of the sink. He curled his fingers around the hard rim until his knuckles strained, whitening under the pressure.
His breath hitched once; a quiet, sharp, involuntary sound in the silence.
He kept his head down, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting for control.
It didn’t stop the old, ingrained lines from whispering through his thoughts, soft at first, then louder, clearer, in a voice that wasn't his own:
Stand straight.
No mistakes.
Obedience first.
He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working against a sudden, painful tightness, but the words didn’t go away.
They snapped into place behind his eyes with the same brutal clarity they had the first time he’d heard them spoken.
His chest tightened further. His vision blurred at the edges, the pristine white tiles of the bathroom wavering.
And then, the present slipped.
The cold tile under his palms shifted in texture, becoming something rough, wooden planks, warmer to the touch, uneven.
The sharp, clean scent of lemon disinfectant thinned, dissolving into something dusty, something sour and sunbaked.
The quiet hum of the office and its muted chatter dissolved completely, replaced by the muffled sound of shouting from another room, the heavy thud of footsteps on hard-packed dirt, the distinct, mournful creak of a heavy chapel door swinging shut.
∞∞∞
15 years before
The bus door slid open with a rough scrape, letting in a sudden gust of dry air that smelled of dust and pine sap.
Fifteen-year-old Samuel sat rigid in the back, his hands clenched so tightly around the strap of his backpack that the nylon dug into his palms. His legs felt like dead weight when he tried to swing them out, a strange paralysis holding him in place.
For a long second he just stayed there, staring at the ground outside, a stretch of packed dirt scattered with sharp, pale gravel, trying to will his body into motion.
A volunteer in a faded camp polo shirt tapped the side of the bus with a flat, impatient hand. “Let’s go,” he said, his tone sharp. “Out.”
Samuel stepped out. His sneakers landed unevenly on the loose dirt, the impact jolting up his spine and into his teeth.
The sun was a brutal, white glare, bright enough to make his eyes water instantly.
He blinked hard, squeezing them shut for a moment, pretending the dampness was only from the heat.
The camp grounds stretched out in front of him like a stark photograph: a cluster of wooden buildings, all identical in their dull, peeling beige paint; a stark chapel with a tall, white cross mounted above the door; a wide, barren field fenced in by a wall of tall, silent pines.
A wooden sign hung crookedly from two rusted chains near the entrance, its carved letters stark against the weathered wood:
RESTORATION HILLS
Reclaiming God’s Design
The words made the fine hairs on the back of Samuel’s neck prickle with a cold dread.
Other boys were already gathered near a long row of picnic tables; some with their arms crossed tightly over their chests, some hugging themselves, a few trying and failing to look bored and unaffected.
A handful looked about the same age as Samuel; others were older, sixteen or seventeen, their faces already set in hard, unreadable lines. No one spoke.
Volunteers moved among them, clutching clipboards and large plastic bins, calling out names in flat tones, checking off lists, steering boys into place with a firm, impersonal hand on a shoulder or the small of a back.
“Line up,” one counselor barked, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Single file. Eyes front.”
Samuel moved automatically, his muscles responding to the command before his mind could process it, slipping into the line between two boys he didn’t know.
The one on his left sniffed quietly, a wet, ragged sound, and wiped his nose with the back of a trembling hand.
The boy on his right, hair a mess of wild, blond locks, kept his chin lifted in a show of defiance, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked beneath his skin, as if daring anyone to try something.
Samuel kept his own eyes down, fixed on the scuffed toes of his sneakers.
A volunteer stepped in close beside Samuel, his presence an immediate invasion of space. “Eyes forward,” he instructed, tapping two firm fingers against Samuel’s shoulder blade. “No talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Samuel whispered, the words barely a breath.
The volunteer didn’t react. He had already turned away, repeating the same flat instruction to the boy behind him in a monotonous loop.
Samuel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to mimic the way the other boys were standing: utterly still, completely contained, their postures a mask of submission.
His chest felt impossibly tight, the heavy, hot air pressing like a physical weight against his skin, sweat already gathering in a slick patch between his shoulder blades.
Across the yard, a staff member lifted a whistle to his lips and blew.
Every single boy in the line flinched.
“Move to the chapel!” a voice shouted, raw with authority. “Keep the line straight. Keep your hands at your sides. No talking.”
The group began to move as one, a slow, shuffling mass of bodies trudging forward. Samuel followed, his head bowed, his focus narrowed to the uneven dirt path, trying not to stumble.
He wanted to look at the others, to search their faces for a flicker of shared terror.
He wanted to whisper a question, to ask if they were as scared as he was.
He wanted to know if this was all some terrible mistake, if maybe his parents’ car would come roaring down the gravel drive, having changed their minds, deciding he didn’t need to be fixed after all.
But no one looked at anyone.
No one asked any questions.
Every boy stared straight ahead, gaze locked on some distant, invisible point.
And for the first time, Samuel felt the initial spike of fear settle and compact into something much heavier and more permanent.
The line of boys shuffled toward the long, low wooden building, moving as one uneven current. The heat pressed down like a heavy, suffocating hand, so thick and dry that the air itself tasted of dust at the back of his throat.
Inside, the building opened into a cavernous, chapel-style room; rows of worn, metal-framed folding chairs arranged in relentlessly neat lines all facing a bare, raised platform.
The windows were narrow slits set high up on the walls, letting in thin, useless bands of light that did little to pierce the gloom.
The walls were paneled in old, dark wood that gave off a faint, cloying smell of old varnish and underlying mildew.
“Find a seat,” a counselor ordered, his voice echoing in the hushed space. “Quickly.”