Jack barely saw the traffic around him as his old black Mustang hurtled from the on-ramp to the highway. Since leaving the library, Ann’s fear had settled into the back corner of his mind. He could sense her direction, somewhere to the south, as if she were a beacon. When they connected on that table, had she seen his lives as he saw hers? He bit into a granola bar as he swerved past a semi-truck.

“Millae is real,” he said to the steering wheel. “And the Isle of Song.” He took another bite. “And so was the attacker last night.”

His phone belted out a short cheerful melody, notifying him he was late for work. He stuffed the last of the bar into his mouth and pulled onto the closest exit. He couldn’t afford to miss another workday, and the thought of hiding in his apartment again, willing the demon in his mind to stop whispering, made him shutter. “But maybe you’re gone now.”

Ten minutes later, after driving around the block, he settled the old Mustang into a parking space in front of his office. He half jogged, half walked, to the glass front doors. When he reached the stairwell, he took two stairs at a time, abandoning the effort to look civilized. On the fourth floor, he slowly pushed the heavy metal door open. Moments later he collapsed into his ergonomically correct black and gray chair. While reaching for his keyboard, Greg appeared around the cubical wall next to his desk.

“Dude, where have you been? You don’t look good.”

Jack kept his eyes on the screen and tapped a key to wake his computer.

“Thanks, Greg.”

The whir and buzz of computer fans and large capacity hard drives filled the space as the monitor sprang to life.

“Nobody noticed, I think you’re all right. But seriously, are you still sick? You look like it.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Jack punched in his username and password. He tried to shake Ann from his mind but couldn’t. She was scared and confused, but it felt muted now, pushed down. Maybe she was at work too? He wondered where that was.

“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” Greg asked.

Jack could feel Greg’s annoyance. It was more than his expression and his tone. He could actually feel the emotions rolling toward him. Not inside his mind, like Ann’s. More like a wave rolling toward him. Jack stared at Greg’s scowling face and opened himself to the feeling. He knew Greg wasn’t just annoyed with him; he was annoyed with his wife for yelling at him early that morning. She did not think he was spending enough time with the kids. He felt like he was trying, but there wasn’t enough time in the day. His annoyance bled into guilt for staying at the office late, playing video games instead of going straight home. The thoughts rode emotions like a surfer on a wave, crashing into Jack’s mind.

“Jack?” Greg said.

“What?”

“Maybe you should go home.”

“I can’t,” Jack said, trying to untangle his emotions from Greg’s and Ann’s.

“Yeah, but you need to blah blah blah…” Jack ignored his words as Greg launched into a lecture. He knew Greg needed somewhere to feel important, somewhere he felt like he had authority. Instead of tuning him completely out though, this time he tilted his head and shifted his gaze to different angles, studying the waves of emotions flowing toward him. The words didn’t matter. He leaned forward and concentrated. Shades of dark and light gray billowed from Greg like smoke drifting toward him. Some drifted off into the atmosphere, but most of it came his direction. He knew he wasn’t the actual target of Greg’s lecture; he was just the catalyst that set it off. Jack wondered if this was always the case. A subtle chiming from Jack’s phone broke his concentration. He leaned to the side, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled it out.

“Hello?” He held the phone up to his ear and Greg shut his mouth with an audible clamp, glaring at him.

“Mister Blackwell.” Jack didn’t recognize the deep voice but could tell that the owner of it was in control of his home life.

“Yes?”

“We need to meet.”

It was simple, beyond questioning. They needed to meet. Jack brushed away the compulsion to immediately comply with the command.

“Who are you?”

“We need to discuss the safety of our friend.”

Jack sat up straight in his chair and clutched the phone. Greg, leaning on Jack’s cube wall, tilted his head toward him. Ann was a small tense knot of fear in the back of his mind. Or was that his imagination?

“Mister Blackwell?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

Jack tried to make his voice calm.

“You know, she has the loveliest green eyes, and her dark red—”

“Who are you?” Jack said. The thought of Ann in danger sent goosebumps up the back of his neck. He wondered if she could feel his fear like he felt hers. Maybe it worked both ways.

“You know me, Mister Blackwell, you just don’t remember. We will meet tonight at midnight.”

“Where?” he asked. “And why midnight, what’s wrong with eight o’clock or nine-thirty?”

“We will meet at Union Station. Be in the front parking lot at twelve.”

The line went dead.

“Hello? Hello?” Jack brought the phone down to his lap.

“Who was that?” Greg asked.

Ann might be in danger.

“Jack!”

“Right, Greg,” Jack said, looking up at him. “I have to go. Family emergency.”

“You can’t just leave. You have to tell Ben and send out a team email. Management just sent a memo about time and attendance,” Greg said. “I’m not sure who else is online today but—”

“Stop,” Jack said, rising from his chair. Greg put his hand on Jack’s arm as he passed. Spinning, Jack slammed him into the wall of the nearest cubicle.

“Sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean to do that.” He took a breath and noticed that the demon voice still did not come. Normally it would scream for blood as soon as there was a hint of conflict. Maybe it was gone for good. “Just stop, okay,” he said.

“Okay, Jack,” Greg said. “But you still need to send out an—”

“Stop telling me what I need. I don’t care about this stupid job.”

It wasn’t Greg’s fault. Jack felt remorse and a little fear spill out of Greg, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He spun on his heel to continue his march, but instead, came face-to-face with Ben, his boss.

“You don’t care about your job? What is it you don’t care about?” Ben asked. His nasal voice infuriated Jack as if he was saying I’m better than you, with every word. He thought the world owed him. Even the way he walked, with a slight strut, added to his arrogance. It made his bony frame look ridiculous every time he strolled through the cube farm, which was at least once an hour. He would saunter out of his large office, which had real walls, to bully and intimidate the cube farm laborers working under him.

Ben’s revulsion and hate washed over him, pulsing from the small man in bulging red waves. Through Ben’s emotion, Jack saw himself as the bully, not the other way around. He could see the world as black and white through his eyes. Ben’s were the eyes of a child. A child driven to murder years ago. The homicide had been revenge taken against two older boys. The names Brad Carrinder and Rich Charlston burned brightly in Ben’s memory. Jack tried to resist the childhood scene, but the image overtook him, and a bridge formed, dragging him down and dropping him onto a river sandbar. The summer sun baked the sand around him as he waded into the cool river water.

Ben loved to play on the sandbars, loved how they jutted out into the wide brown swirling waters of the river. At thirteen he was gifted enough to skip a grade, landing him in high school a year early, despite his protests and desire to stay with his friends in the lower grade. It was a hard year and about to become so much worse. When the older boys found him on the sandbar that day, he smelled the stench of whiskey on their breath. He froze when Brad dared Rich to punch the little freshman in the face. Rich hesitated for only a moment before swinging his fist at the smaller boy’s chin.

“Why did you do that?” Ben said, pressing his hand to his cheek, holding back tears.

“Because you’re a fag,” Brad said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he twitched his head to the side. They had been consuming more than whiskey. Rich swung again and his fist connected with Ben’s other cheek. He thought of Thor delivering a mighty blow from his hammer. He heard a crack and saw a bright flash of white light as he fell to the sand as if someone flipped his power switch to off.

He thought of the Thor comic book his mother bought him. He read it and reread it, the red cover calling to him, resting on his small brown desk at home. He wished he was there now, reading his comic about mighty heroes crushing evil villains. Brad slipped his booted foot into the sand, under Ben’s stomach, and rolled him onto his back. Ben looked up into Brad’s gleeful eyes and wondered why they wanted to hurt him. The large boy lowered himself, straddling his small chest. Ben tried to squirm out from under Brad’s weight, but only managed to dig himself deeper into the sand.

“My turn on your face,” Brad said.

He delivered a soft, fast blow to Ben’s cheek.

“Wait,” Ben said, trying to buck Brad’s weight off.

Brad grunted and delivered another blow to the boy’s opposite cheek.

“Wait,” Rich mocked in a high falsetto, his face hovering over Brad’s shoulder.

More blows rained down on Ben’s face until they were coming in a steady stream, one after another. Ben closed his eyes, wishing he could raise his pinned arms over his face to block the barrage. Faintly, far away, Ben heard Brad’s murmuring voice as the blows rained down, “little bitch, little bitch, little bitch.”

Bursts of white fire exploded behind his eyelids. The blasting pain faded into a distant numbness as the scrape of knuckles from blow after blow connected with his cheeks and eyes. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he wondered if he had bitten his tongue. A thousand needles stabbed the inside of his cheeks with each blow, and he pictured shards of broken teeth piercing his flesh.

The punches finally slowed and stopped, but Ben kept his eyes closed. He didn’t know if he could open them. He wanted to ask them why, but his ruined mouth wouldn’t obey. Brad’s weight lifted from his chest and he sucked a wheezing breath in through broken teeth. How long did it take to get brain damage without oxygen? His right eye drifted open, but his left refused. A large brown boot, attached to a blue jean-clad leg, was sailing through the air toward his midsection. His arms instinctively came up to protect his head, and he squeezed his eye shut, willing his torturers to go away.

They kicked him until his body felt like rubber instead of flesh and bone. He was still conscious when the blows ceased but didn’t think he could move. He didn’t want to move. It felt right to be still. He wished his mother were there to stroke his hair. She used to cradle his head in her lap and rub his temples when his headaches came. The migraines were worse since the school district forced him into 9th grade. He happily drifted into the memory before the world snapped back into focus. His body jerked limply as Brad pulled down his pants and Rich ripped his boxers off. He lost his shirt sometime earlier and wondered where it was. He hoped nobody was around to see his naked body.

“Get your ass in that shower, son,” came Mr. McAlister’s voice from 9th-grade gym class. The older boys looked at him and laughed. He shuddered, which sent jolts of electric pain through his ribs, chest, and jaw. He tried to lie still again, the sand and mud felt cool on his bruised and bleeding skin. But they weren’t finished. Brad grabbed a long stick from a nearby brush pile and smacked Ben’s stomach and genitals.

“Wait, use this!” Rich called, stripping the black leather belt out of Ben’s brown corduroy pants with a whoosh. Brad grabbed it and dropped the stick. The crack of leather on skin rang out and Ben squealed and moaned, wishing he could scream but his mouth would not open. The brutal smacks traveled up and down his body, over and over in cadence with the mantra of gay, fag, and homo. Someone flipped him onto his stomach and as a new pain began, he let the darkness consume him.

Later, he could not tell how long, he blinked his eyes open in a dimly lit room. Air whistled in and out through his wired jaw as he breathed. His mother slept in a chair beside the bed. Dings and chirps from hospital equipment filled the room. He wasn’t dead. He closed his eyes and wished he was. When he opened them again, he was in therapy years later. It didn’t help. He still woke up at night, with a body full of pain and the memory of icy river water filling his mouth, his blood mixing with the surrounding mud. Some nights, he still reached out, calling for his mother, but she died years ago. The look on her face, when she had seen her little boy in the hospital, haunted him. He had wanted to comfort her, but he couldn’t move, and the wire in his shattered jaw kept him from speaking.

Jack came back to himself with a gasp and put his hand out to stop the onslaught of memory, pressing his fingertips into Ben’s chest. The sudden contact sent a jolt through his senses and he watched as Ben plotted his revenge. It took him a year to find the right opportunity, and a graduation party on the riverbank seemed poetically appropriate. The paper claimed that it was a drunken high school accident, but Jack saw what Ben had done.

“They screamed like animals, begged and pleaded, admitted they were lovers,” Ben said. His voice was forced like the words were being ripped out of him, dragged along by the emotional tide.

“But I’m not them,” Jack said, trying, and failing, to pull his hand back. Strands of white electricity writhed around his fingertips. Without understanding how he pulled the fear out of his coworkers around him. He coaxed it toward Ben, willing it into the murderous little man.

“Don’t hurt me,” Ben said. The plea of a child.

Pity twisted a knot into Jack’s stomach, but he had to sever the connection somehow. When enough of his coworker’s fear was pulsing into Ben, he snatched his hand and his mind away. He took a ragged breath. Angry red waves of emotion raged around him like a hurricane.

“I quit,” Jack whispered.

“That’s probably for the best,” Ben said with a shudder. He convulsed again, and his eyeballs rolled back into his skull. Jack stepped around him. He let the flood of fear washing over Ben linger until he was around the corner and in front of the stairwell door.

“I’ll call you when I sort things out, Greg,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Without knowing how he was controlling it, Jack let go of the fear and it rebounded back into the people around Ben. Grunts and groans from his colleagues filled the space behind him. He shut them out and pushed his way through the heavy stairwell door and down the steps. He didn’t know if he felt sorry for Ben, because he understood the urge to kill, or if the double murder he committed repulsed him. When he finally settled into the familiar black leather seat of his Mustang, worn and comfortable, he rested his head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

He bought the black 1994 Mustang GT with his father the summer before his senior year in high school. They restored it together. It was his father’s effort to find the bond they once had. The therapist recommended a shared activity, and he used to love tagging along to car shows with his dad when he was a kid. That was before the voice came. Before the fight at school. It worked for a time, but the demon voice in Jack’s mind slowly drove him away once more. It was the only car he ever owned. He focused on the comforting smell of the immaculate interior, trying to banish Ben’s pain. He could see his father’s concerned eyes and felt his gut wrench further.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the memory of his father. “I didn’t mean to leave you.”

The old muscle car sprang to life with a throaty growl when he finally turned the ignition key, washing away any lingering doubt about his next course of action. He had to meet the kidnapper. Did the man really take Ann? Was he the man from his apartment last night? He thought about calling the police but dismissed the idea. There were too many things he couldn’t explain, and he suspected that this wasn’t the first time he had dealt with these people. It was just the first time in this life.