Chapter 2 #2
Samuel slid into a chair near the middle of a row.
The frame wobbled precariously under him, one leg shorter than the others, creating a constant, unstable teeter.
The boy on his left sat bolt upright, his fingers dug so hard into the sides of his seat that his fingertips were bloodless.
The blond boy on his right had his arms locked across his chest, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped and twitched along the bone.
Staff members lined the perimeter walls, six of them, evenly spaced like sentinels, their hands clasped formally behind their backs. They watched the room with an unnerving stillness, their eyes missing nothing.
Samuel’s stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot.
The director entered last.
He was an older man, tall and broad-shouldered, with silver hair combed into a severe, neat wave and a heavy, black Bible tucked under his arm.
His smile was a wide, practiced stretch that looked completely disconnected from his eyes as he stepped onto the platform and adjusted the microphone stand with a grating squeal.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice a booming force that seemed amplified by more than just the small speakers. “Welcome to Restoration Hills. A place where broken paths are straightened, lost spirits are reclaimed, and young women and men are guided back to the design God intended for them.”
Samuel’s throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.
His hands pressed flat and hard against the rough fabric of his thighs, his palms damp.
“You are here,” the director continued, pacing slowly across the creaking platform with a measured, deliberate tread, “because someone in your life believes in your potential. Believes you can be saved. Because they believe you can choose purity over corruption… obedience over rebellion.”
His gaze swept the room, slow and pointed, seeming to land on each boy for a fraction of a second too long.
The boys stared straight ahead, a collection of frozen portraits.
Some faces were completely blank, wiped clean of emotion.
Others were pale and openly terrified.
Samuel kept his own eyes locked on a dark, gnarled knot in the wooden floorboard between his feet.
“There is no shame in struggling,” the director said, his tone dipping into a false, honeyed softness that felt more threatening than comforting.
“But there is profound danger in indulging sin. Left unchecked, sin spreads like a sickness. It warps the mind. It destroys families. We are here to guide you away from that destruction. To teach you true discipline. To help you become what God meant you to be.”
Every few sentences, he paused and looked toward the staff lining the walls, who nodded in perfect, chilling unison.
A boy two rows ahead shifted minutely in his chair, his foot beginning to tap a nervous, frantic rhythm against the leg.
A counselor immediately stepped forward from the wall and placed a firm, silencing hand on his shoulder.
The boy froze instantly, his entire body going rigid.
Samuel felt the fine hairs on his forearms rise in response.
“You will find that fear fades,” the director intoned, his voice rising again to fill the space. “Resistance fades. What remains is clarity. Purpose. Strength. But you will only find these things if you surrender to the process.”
Sam pressed his knees together, trying to counteract the sudden tremor that threatened to travel up his legs.
“You are not here to be punished,” the director went on, the wide, stretched smile returning to his face. “You are here to be corrected. To be restored to purity. To be made whole.”
The words lingered in the hot, still air, settling over the boys with a palpable, heavy weight.
The director closed his Bible with a single, decisive snap that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Your transformation begins today,” he declared. “And every step you take will be one you choose. We will guide you. We will teach you. We will restore you..”
His gaze swept the room once more and seemed to land directly on Samuel for a single, paralyzing beat too long, though Sam couldn’t tell whether it was intentional or just a trick of his own hyper-vigilance.
Either way, his entire body went rigid, every muscle locking in place.
The sermon ended with a collective prayer the boys were expected to recite aloud.
Half of them stumbled through the unfamiliar words, their voices thin and hesitant.
The others merely mouthed the syllables without sound.
Samuel whispered them as quietly as he could, the words ash in his mouth, trying to make himself invisible.
When the director finally dismissed them, no one stood until a counselor at the front gave a sharp, verbal order.
Samuel rose with the group, his legs feeling unsteady and foreign beneath him, his head buzzing with a static hum.
The walls of the chapel seemed to press inward, closer than before.
The air felt thicker, harder to pull into his lungs.
The fear settled, low, heavy, and solid in the pit of his stomach, like something cold and metallic taking root.
The boys were herded out of the chapel and into a long, low building that smelled sharply of sweat, harsh pine-scented cleaner, and the damp, fungal odor of old plywood.
Samuel followed the silent line down a narrow, dimly lit hallway that funneled them into a stark sorting room.
Several metal folding tables lined the walls, their surfaces stacked with personal belongings that looked starkly out of place; smartphones, leather wallets, tangled charger cords, expensive watches, spiral-bound notebooks, a few folded shirts neatly tied together with rough twine.
“Line up,” a counselor instructed, his voice devoid of inflection. “Hands at your sides. Face forward.”
Samuel stepped into place behind a lanky boy with a spray of freckles across his neck.
The boy’s shoulders twitched in a single, involuntary spasm before he forced them back into a rigid stillness.
Another counselor paced slowly along the line, his eyes scanning each of them with a cold, clinical detachment, as if assessing for defects in a product shipment.
“When you step forward,” a volunteer announced, his voice flat, “you will empty your pockets and hand over all personal items. Everything goes in the bin. There are no exceptions.”
One by one, the boys obeyed. Phones were surrendered; some dropped into the bin with a clatter of resent, some placed delicately, almost reverently, as if they were the last fragile link to a world outside these walls.
Wallets followed, then beaded bracelets, class rings, headphone cords, and carefully scribbled notes.
A few boys hesitated, their hands hovering, but only until a counselor took a single step closer.
Samuel’s own fingers clutched the strap of his backpack tighter, the nylon digging into his palm.
When it was his turn, he stepped up to the table and set his phone down carefully.
The cracked screen caught a sliver of dusty sunlight from a high window and glared back at him.
His favorite book joined it soon after. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out the small, carefully folded photograph he’d brought with him; just him and his brother, arms slung around each other's shoulders in front of their house, both squinting into the sun on a day that felt a lifetime ago.
He hesitated.
It was only for a second. A fleeting moment of rebellion.
But it was enough for the counselor standing at the end of the table to notice. The man took two swift steps over, his palm already extended, waiting.
“That too,” he said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.
Samuel’s fingers curled slightly, instinctively, around the worn edges of the photo. “It’s just…”
“You won’t need any of this here,” the counselor interrupted, and he plucked the photograph straight from Samuel’s grasp, not giving him the chance to finish his plea.
Samuel’s breath hitched in his throat, a sharp, painful catch.
The counselor turned away and dropped the folded paper into the bin without even looking at it. The photograph bent at the corner where it hit the hard plastic edge of a discarded phone.
Samuel’s voice came out thin and reedy. “Okay.”
“Step aside,” the counselor said, already turning his attention to the next boy in line, his duty discharged.
Samuel stepped back and stood exactly where he was directed.
His hands felt unnaturally light and useless, his chest so tight it felt as if his ribs were constricting with each shallow breath.
The room seemed to grow warmer all of a sudden, the air heavy and thick, as if the wooden walls were actively pressing in closer.
∞∞∞
Present
The memory snapped apart with a violent, internal jolt, leaving Samuel gripping the cold, porcelain sink in the men’s bathroom as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
The room tilted and swayed for a dizzying second before the world settled back into its sharp, lines, brutally bright and sterile under the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror; his face pale and waxy, skin pulled tight around his mouth, his eyes wide and glassy.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, or tried to.
It caught halfway up his throat, a thin, unsteady rasp that did nothing to fill his lungs.
His fingers curled harder around the edge of the sink.
His pulse thudded in the hollow of his neck, a frantic, hammering rhythm that felt loud enough to echo inside the small room.
He dragged his gaze away from the haunted man in the mirror and forced himself to focus on the sleek, chrome faucet.
Turning it on gave his trembling hands a simple task.
He cupped his palms under the icy stream, and brought the water to his face, letting it run over his closed eyelids, down his cheeks, and drip in uneven, cold trails from his jaw onto the counter.
He did it again, leaning into the discomfort.