John Brandon - Citrus County

Toby remembered riding in the back of the police car. There was a metal screen separating the front seat from the back. Two cops sat up front and one sat next to Toby, a guy with a thin, sly mustache. The guy kept asking Toby questions, mostly easy ones like his age and what sports he liked, but then he’d slip in questions about Uncle Neal. Toby had known enough to say nothing.

Uncle Neal was gone. Toby’s uncle was dead. Toby would never know if he’d killed himself because he thought he’d be blamed for the kidnapping, or because he’d been looking for an excuse for a long time and this seemed like a good one, or if his uncle had meant to take the rap for Toby. Maybe, for the first time, Toby’s uncle had looked out for him. Toby had hastened his uncle’s suicide and his uncle had kept Toby out of trouble. They’d helped each other. Toby was very glad he hadn’t gone in and seen his uncle dead. He didn’t want that in his mind. That wasn’t the kind of thing, he imagined, you could clear out with a long walk.

Toby heard steps approaching his room and then a nurse with black shoes was in the doorway.

“Want the light on?” she asked.

“No,” Toby said. “If that’s okay.”

The nurse came over and pulled Toby straighter and plumped his pillows. She didn’t seem fond of Toby, but was nonetheless going to be a proficient nurse.

“Did they get me from my uncle’s house last night?” Toby asked. “Or was it the night before?”

“It was last night,” the nurse said. “They gave you something for sleeping. That’s why it feels like you got hit in the head.”

The nurse had a mint in her mouth. The mint was gleaming white, and made it easy to see that her teeth were not. She opened a couple drawers and was not displeased at what she saw in them. She glanced at Toby’s chart, then went and pulled the blinds all the way up. She told Toby she’d be back in a few minutes to help him to the shower. The doctor would be coming by in an hour or two, and she wanted Toby alert.

She picked up the remote control and walked it over to him.

“Could I get a soda?” Toby asked. “A soda on ice?”

“I suppose you can have a soda.”

“Are there cops here?”

The nurse nodded. “They’re down by the nurses’ station. They’re wearing regular clothes. I think it’s supposed to be a secret you’re here, but we’ll see how long that lasts. Those guys won’t bother you. They’re down there flirting with Stacy.”

“I don’t want to see any cops right now.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Stacy’s got her low-cut scrubs on.”

The nurse tapped the door frame, meaning she was leaving.

“Maybe two sodas,” said Toby.

“A double.” The nurse might’ve smiled.

“Is the little girl here?” Toby asked. “Is Kaley and her family here?”

The nurse made a noise. If she’d smiled, that was over now. “No, sir. They took that child down to a fancier place than we got.”

The nurse left and Toby turned his attention to the remote control in his hands. Menu. Mode. Function. He hit the power button and the screen snapped to life. He heard the announcers before he could make out what was on the screen. It was a soccer game, from Mexico or somewhere. People holding banners hopped in the stands. Toby pressed the arrow. A show from the eighties about teenagers. A show about barbecue. Toby needed a news network. He found one, and turned the volume up a notch.

There was a shot of Uncle Neal’s property from above, from a helicopter. Toby could hear the blades whirring. The sight of Uncle Neal’s place gave him a pang — for what, he couldn’t say. A woman with a flinty voice began speaking, referring to Uncle Neal’s property as a compound. All of it could have looked placid and everyday — the house, the shed, the winding dirt driveway that stopped a ways short of the house — but with the wobbly camera and the eerie music swelling up, everything was sinister. The woman mentioned Kaley and a picture of her appeared in the upper corner of the screen. The woman was in disbelief that Kaley had survived her ordeal. They had a different picture of Kaley now. In this one, she was held aloft by someone and was clutching a popsicle. Next to the bright orange of the popsicle you could see just how gaunt and colorless she’d grown, like the mint and the nurse’s teeth. Kaley looked terrible, really. She would’ve died. Toby could say that now. Anyone that laid eyes on her could tell she wouldn’t have lasted much longer. The station left the picture of Kaley in the corner of the screen while the anchorwoman returned her attention to the Showers compound. The shed, she said, was packed with hemlock plants. There were drugs all over the house, few of them strictly illegal. No food in the fridge. Old carpets that had never been cleaned. The anchorwoman said a lot of folks believed Neal Showers had gotten off easy, killing himself, that he should have had to face Kaley’s father and have his day in court and try his luck in prison. Toby looked down at his hands. They were pale, weakly veined. They didn’t seem capable of the things they’d done. Toby wanted to know how they’d even found Kaley. How had it all broken loose in the first place? No one was saying.

In time, the station cut away from Uncle Neal’s place. They showed the anchorwoman. She guided her bangs into place and then started talking about Shelby, speaking reverently, speaking of Shelby as a hero. She had followed the nephew out to the bunker. Neal Showers had been sick enough not only to kidnap a little girl, but to force his nephew to help with the keeping. The anchorwoman was flabbergasted at the things that happened in the world. She promised that in the coming hours she would have full reports on Shelby, on the nephew, and on the bunker itself. She promised to describe in detail the conditions the little girl had endured.

Toby removed his blankets and sat himself on the edge of the bed. Shelby. Shelby had figured it out. Somehow Toby was glad it had been her and no one else. She had never underestimated Toby, had she? Toby was relieved that Shelby knew the truth about him. He made his way to the window, one hand on the wall, and pulled the cord, dropping the blinds. He twisted the plastic staff and the room grew dim again.

The commercials came and went and the anchorwoman began talking about Toby. Earlier she hadn’t said his name, but now she did. The woman spoke of him in pitiful tones. She said the name Milton Hibma. Mr. Hibma? Here he was, wearing a tie. Mr. Hibma was trying to get temporary custody of Toby. He was the boy’s geography teacher, the woman explained, a single man with no children. Toby had no family, no godparents.

Toby remembered. Mr. Hibma had been waiting at the hospital when Toby’d been transferred from the police station. Mr. Hibma had left him food from the taco place. Nachos. Toby rolled to the edge of the bed and lifted up the trash can. The carton was inside, the cheese containers. Toby didn’t remember eating anything, didn’t feel like he could’ve.

Toby shut off the TV. He was so thirsty. Mr. Hibma wanted him. Could that be true? Mr. Hibma didn’t bother with troubled kids. Since Toby had gone and tried to confess to him during lunch that day, Mr. Hibma had barely looked at him. Toby had woken up in an altered world. It only looked like the old world. Toby would have to change. He’d have to take the new world in stride. He had to shake the feeling that he was going to be punished, that he deserved justice. He was being treated as a victim. He was a type of victim; that’s what they all thought.

Mr. Hibma had been up late, switching between a show about temp workers and a long commercial for a video of girls revealing their breasts. He had been preparing to turn the TV off and face the noiseless night, flipping through the cycle of channels one last time, when there was a newsbreak. The pictures in the corner of the screen weren’t matching up with the hastily written script. Shelby Register’s little sister had been found. She’d been rescued, alive. Mr. Hibma had listened to a description of Neal Showers, who’d killed himself, and whose nephew was now in the custody of the Citrus County Sheriff’s Department. Mr. Hibma sat up and took a swallow of stale tea. Neal Showers. That was the name Toby had always forged on his detention forms. Mr. Hibma could see the careful cursive. It was Toby who was at the police station. Toby.