Joshua McCune - Talker 25

Pain, rage, hatred. That’s what they want. The families will provide their emotional truth in spades, but their wrath’s a candle flame to the inferno that would be Dad. Maybe he won’t come, though. Maybe he’s too injured.

Or maybe he refused. As Mr. D-man loads me into the Humvee for the trip across base, that’s the hope I cling to. I can make it through everyone else. Grimace and bear it. In nae . Persevere. But, God, just don’t let Dad be there.

When we arrive, the interview room’s empty except for Simon and the cameramen. Three rows of seats form a semicircle around a solitary chair, to which Mr. D-man shackles my hands.

Simon shoves a tiny transceiver into my ear.

“When I speak, I am God and you are my disciple who must do as you’re told,” Hector says through the earpiece. “We’re clear on that, right?”

I chew at my lip. Last night, Hector mentioned a loose script that needed to be followed. The transceiver’s his safeguard to ensure story continuity and prevent any misunderstandings. Should I behave inappropriately or go off my spoon-fed lines, he will incapacitate me, sending me into spasming fits that will be attributed to my psychological instability.

“Are we clear, Melissa?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Excellent. The party’s going to begin soon. . . . You look terrified. That’s good, but try to back it off a little bit. You’re sad afraid, not scared afraid. You don’t want to meet these people because you know the damage you’ve done, but as the show goes on, you find relief in admitting your guilt.”

While Simon fine-tunes the camera positions, Hector continues his ridiculous coaching. I keep glancing at the door, expecting it to open any second. By the third time Hector tells me to calm down, my heart’s ready to explode. Is this what it’s like to be in the electric chair?

The door opens. My breath catches in my throat, but it’s just Kim, here to touch up my makeup. Ignoring the stylist’s orders not to wrinkle my face, I shut my eyes tight and pray that when I open them I’ll be in my bed in Mason-Kline and the world will be halfway right again.

“Bring them in,” Simon says. “One at a time.”

“Open your eyes, Melissa,” Hector says. “Don’t hide from these people. You owe them your shame.”

I obey and find a camera a few feet from me, focused dead on my face. “My shame is agreeing to this lie.”

“Keep those opinions to yourself.”

Karlton Smith is first. The class valedictorian the year ahead of mine. A physics genius. I had a serious crush on him. Once upon a time, I thought he might have even liked me.

He stops in the doorway and stares at me for what feels like hours, his left eye twitching every few seconds.

“Karlton Smith’s twelve-year-old sister, Julia, died of smoke inhalation during the first wave. Her family called her Chipmunk,” Hector tells me. “They said she smiled all the time. Her cheeks would puff out, big and happy.”

I don’t doubt it. Karlton didn’t smile much, but when he did, you couldn’t help but notice, especially if it was directed your way. As Simon’s assistant points him toward a chair in the back row, I wonder how long it will take before Karlton remembers how to smile.

Lieutenant Mickelson’s next. The balding history teacher doesn’t crack an expression. He was always a bit bland, but now he seems completely lifeless.

“Geoff Mickelson’s wife, Laurie, was killed outside the Walmart when the dragons stampeded,” Hector says. “It was three days before their anniversary. During Christmas break, they had planned to celebrate with a vacation to Mexico. It was going to be their honeymoon because they couldn’t afford one when they got married.”

Lieutenant Mickelson shakes his head at me, then takes the chair beside Karlton. I’m counting them, wondering if all will be filled, when a middle-aged woman enters, her mascara already in ruins from crying.

“How could you?” she blubbers.

I recognize her, though I don’t know why until Hector provides her name. “Cordelia Simpson’s daughter, Cynthia, was attempting to free their horses from the barn when she was caught in the flames of a red dragon. For her senior service project, Cynthia organized a cow-pie bingo fundraiser for cancer patient Wyatt Nelson. . . .”

I flinch at the memory. The entire community gathered at the soccer field, which had been sectioned into a massive bingo grid. Dad bought a number for both Sam and me. Pictures of a healthy Wyatt scrolled across the scoreboard. One included him playing Knights and Dragons with Sam. From his wheelchair on the sideline, Wyatt released the cow. To cheers, laughter, and a few directional prods, it plodded around the field until making its deposit.

“. . . Wyatt died two days after the attack from burn wounds.”

The roll call continues. Most I know by face, if not by name. For each, Hector provides a tragic story about a life cut short, families unmade.

Everyone’s in funeral black. A few mutter curses and some admonish me with finger waggles—I’m not sure if it’s for my assumed actions or my getup. Probably both. But for the most part they just seem in a state of shock or grief.

I manage to keep my own tears at bay, even though Hector urges me to let loose. I can’t, though, because once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. I know I didn’t destroy these people’s families, but they think I did. I can feel their hatred.

Almost all the chairs are occupied when Trish enters. My heart falls through the floor. Any sign of our friendship is gone, replaced with stark contempt.

“Trish, I’m so—”

With a primal scream, she hurls herself forward, black hat flying backward at the cameramen swarming behind her. She smashes into me. As we tumble to the ground, she rams her fist into my bicep. Something sharp pricks my skin. A needle.

She shoves it farther into my arm, I squirm but can’t break free.

She drives her knee into my stomach. “Stop struggling, you dragon whore!”

Mr. D-man jerks Trish off me. A rivulet of blood trickles down my arm, but the needle’s disappeared into her fisted hand. Thrashing wildly, she gets in a couple of good kicks and curses before he drags her from the room.

Simon comes over and rights the chair. “Can’t say that wasn’t interesting. A bit overdramatic, but it should play well. I thought she was your friend.”

The dam collapses, the tears flood out.

“She was,” I manage to say. My best friend.

He wipes the blood from my arm with a handkerchief. “That’s a nasty scratch she gave you.” He calls for Kim.

As she applies foundation to my “scratch,” I wonder what Trish injected into me. Poison, disease? I consider telling someone, decide against it. Nobody would care. If anything, they’d approve.

Kim finishes, leaving my face a tear-streaked mess at Simon’s command, and the few remaining family members trudge in. All the chairs are taken, except for one—Trish’s—when a nurse rolls my father in via wheelchair, one of those specialized models for the severely disabled.

I have played this moment a thousand times over in the past hours, but it hasn’t prepared me in the least. I start to hyperventilate as the nurse turns him to face me. He’s even more broken than I imagined. Only his eyes seem to work, but the muscles around them are frozen, so I can’t even tell what he’s thinking.

Hector’s saying something in my ear, the nearby camera’s coming closer, but nothing seems real other than the person in the wheelchair who’s supposedly my father. He looks like him, but Dad can walk and talk. He can yell at me, tell me how mad he is, tell me that no matter how much I fucked things up, that he still loves me.