Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
NINE YEARS AGO
The boy had learned not to ask what day it was.
Days didn’t matter here. Morning meant the man sang in the hallway before unlocking their door. A bell marked meals and work periods. Night came when the hallway lights dimmed and someone checked every lock.
That was how time worked now.
He sat cross-legged on the floor beside Christian, both of them leaning against the cold wall between the two narrow beds. The room had no windows. Only a dresser, a lamp, and a thin strip of light beneath the door.
Christian picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. Dark hair fell into his eyes, and a yellowing bruise marked one cheek from where he’d hit the ground during their last work detail. He’d stumbled beneath the weight of a rock, and the man had ordered him to get back up.
“Do you think anyone is still looking for us?” Christian asked.
“For you.”
Christian glanced at him. “For both of us.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know they’re not.” Christian twisted the thread around one finger. “People have to be looking. It’s what they do.”
The boy wished Christian sounded as if he believed the words.
The lock turned, and both of them went quiet.
A man stepped inside carrying two plastic cups of water. He wore the same reassuring smile he always did, and the boy had come to resent it. There was nothing to smile about.
“How are my boys today?”
Neither answered as the man set the cups on the dresser and crouched in front of them.
“Still waiting for someone to rescue you, huh?” His gaze moved between them. “After all this time. How many times do I have to tell you? Everyone is okay with you being here. It’s a rite of passage.”
Christian stared at the floor.
“You don’t believe me yet,” the man continued. “But things would be easier if you stopped fighting your circumstances and just accepted them.”
Christian finally looked up. “I want to go home.”
The man’s face tightened. “We’ve discussed this.”
“I want to see my family.”
“I know.” The man’s attention shifted briefly to the boy. “I know where both of you came from. I know what the people there did—and didn’t—give you.”
A chill moved across the boy’s skin. He didn’t like the way the man said that. As if knowing things about them gave him the right to decide where they belonged.
Christian’s fingers tightened around the loose thread. “Then you know my family wants me back.”
“Wanting something isn’t the same as knowing what’s best.”
Christian stared at the man defiantly. “Why did you take us?”
Something shifted in the man’s expression. His smile didn’t disappear, but it no longer looked friendly. “You weren’t taken. You were chosen. There’s a difference.”
“For what?” the boy asked. “What were we chosen for?”
The man studied him before rising. “You’ll understand when the time is right. And the right time isn’t something for you to decide. You just need to be obedient in the meantime. One day, it will all make sense.”
With those words, he stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked.
For a long moment, neither boy moved. Then Christian whispered, “He’s lying.”
“About what?”
“All of it.”
Christian almost sounded certain, but he’d twisted the loose thread around one knuckle so tightly the tip had turned white.
The boy pulled his knees closer to his chest. “What’s your family like?”
Christian’s fingers stilled. For the first time all day, something besides fear crossed his face. “They sing.”
The boy squinted. “Like on the radio?”
“Better.”
“Everybody thinks their family is better.”
“No.” A tiny smile appeared. “They’re really good.”
The boy waited for him to say more.
“I have three sisters. Nora’s the oldest. She always tells everybody what to do, but she’s nice about it most of the time. Wren talks when nobody else knows what to say. Marlowe’s loud.”
“Loud bad?”
“Loud good.” Christian’s smile grew. “She laughs at everything, even stuff that’s not funny.”
“And they sing together?”
“All the time. Churches mostly. Sometimes fairs. Sometimes we go really far away.”
“Do you sing?”
Christian looked offended. “No. I’m not a sister.”
A laugh almost slipped out of the boy. “What do you do?”
“I’m gonna play guitar when I’m older.”
“How do you know?”
Christian shrugged. “My dad said.”
His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“What about your family?” Christian asked.
The boy looked toward the door, wishing he had fun stories to tell also. But he didn’t.
Most days, he doubted if his mom or dad even missed him.
“There’s nothing to tell,” he finally said.
Christian watched him a moment but didn’t ask anything else. Somewhere beyond the walls, an engine started and slowly faded into the distance.
After a moment, Christian leaned his head back. “When we get out, you can come to my house.”
The boy looked at him. “Why?”
“Because my mom makes the best cinnamon rolls.”
“How do you know they’re the best?”
Christian gave him a look. “Because I’ve eaten them.”
The answer was so ridiculous that a laugh slipped out before the boy could stop it.
Christian grinned. “I’m for real.”
“Okay.”
“And you can hear my sisters sing.”
“I’d like that.”
Christian held out his hand. It took the boy a second to understand what he wanted before he reached over and shook it.
“Deal?” Christian asked.
“Deal.”
For a few seconds, neither of them let go. The room had no windows, but the boy could picture Christian’s house anyway—a warm kitchen, cinnamon rolls on the table, three sisters singing, and a place waiting for both of them.
One day, he thought. One day, they’d get out of this place.
Then maybe he’d finally be happy and find a home.