Mindwalker by AJ Steiger

basement.
    â€œSorry,” Steven says. His head is turned away from me, toward the wall. “Didn’t mean to start thinking about that.”
    â€œIt’s all right.” I try, unsuccessfully, to keep my voice steady. “Was—was he the one you told me about before?”
    â€œYeah.” His voice registers no emotion.
    I gulp. “He said he knew her secret. What was he talking about?”
    There’s a pause. “She was a cutter,” he says quietly.
    â€œSelf-injury?”
    He nods, staring at the wall. “If he’d reported her for that, she would’ve been reclassified as a Type Three. They would’ve Conditioned her or put her in a treatment facility against herwill. And word would’ve leaked out. Word always gets out. Things would have gotten worse for her at school.”
    The room spins, and I close my eyes, dizzy. Sweat cools on my forehead. “What happened to her?” I whisper.
    â€œAfter that, you mean? She never spoke to me again. I think she was scared of me.”
    My chest aches. I know I should disapprove of his actions. But all I can think about is how much it must have hurt for him to lose his friend.
    Focus.
I’m here to do a job. “Let’s proceed.” I slide the visor down. “I want you to clear all those other memories from your mind and go into your first memory from your kidnapping.”
    â€œI don’t remember being kidnapped. I just remember waking up in that place.”
    â€œLet’s start there.”
    I’m sinking again—deeper this time. I feel as though I’m in a lake, floating slowly toward the bottom, the light dimming until cold, heavy blackness presses in all around me. Even my own breathing recedes into silence.
    Darkness. Then a flicker. Soft, blurred shapes become images.
    I’m in a room with cracked, dirty cement walls. A dull pain throbs behind my eyes, and there’s something warm and sticky on my head, plastering my hair to my skin. Blood?
    Everything aches. It’s cold. So cold. I shiver and try to stand up, but my hands and feet are tied with rough, scratchy rope. There’s a rag stuffed in my mouth, and it tastes like dirt and sour sweat.
    I have to pee. I wriggle, but the ropes won’t loosen.
    The door creaks open, and a man in a stained white shirt enters. He’s huge, broad-shouldered, with a bald head and tiny dark eyes. His face is rubbery, his nose enormous and squashed-looking, his lips fishy and thick. A scar runs from his temple to his jaw.
    He stares at me, and I stare at him. For a moment, he just stands there. Then he smiles. He has only a few teeth, little yellow stumps. Slowly, he approaches, dragging his feet across the cement. He crouches so that his face is level with mine. “Hi, Steven,” he says. His voice is very deep, very quiet.
    I whimper through the gag.
    â€œYou don’t know who I am,” he says. “But I know about you. I know you’re sad. You don’t have any friends, do you?” He strokes my—
Steven’s
—hair.
    Oh God.
    â€œThat’s all over. I’m your friend now. I’m the only friend you need.”
    This isn’t happening. I’m not—this—
    â€œYou’ll like it here. We’re going to play lots of games. You like games, right?”
    Not real. Just neural impulses traveling through a computer.
    He stands. “How about some music?”
    A strange, ancient-looking, boxy gray machine sits in the corner. It has a clear window with circles inside. He walks over to it now and pushes a button, and the little wheels behind the window start to turn. A woman’s voice, singing in French, emanates from the speakers.
    Steven doesn’t know the song, but I recognize “Les Clochesdu Hameau,” and for an instant, I’m Lain Fisher again. Then she breaks apart and dissolves.
    The sound coming from the machine is dim and scratchy. The man whistles