The orange jumpsuit sagged off the boy’s right shoulder. The baggy sleeve bunched up past his elbow, his wrist cuffed to a metal link on the table. He stared down at his hands. The bruises on his face darker and more severe under the accusatory glare of the jail lights.

The door behind Alan opened and a short, portly man in a brown polyester suit bustled into the room as if blown in by a storm.

“Howdy, howdy,” he said, dropping a fat briefcase—the same color as his suit—onto the table. Papers crept out the sides, looking to escape as soon as it was opened. He wiped little drops of water off his bald pate with a blue handkerchief procured from an internal pocket. “What a day for a snowstorm. It’s gonna get worse. I got a trick knee for weather.”

With that, he plopped down across from Alan and peered at him over the top of bifocals held together at the bridge with electrical tape. He extended his hand. “Name’s Mickey Verona. Lawyer’s my game. I’ve been appointed counsel for, um…” He popped the briefcase open—a page fell onto the table—and thumbed through a manila folder. “…for Mr. Builds A Fire.” He looked through the glass at Francis and seemed taken aback by the boy in the chair. “And you are?”

“Alan Smith from the mental health clinic. Francis is my client.”

“Okay, Alan, I have one question for you. Friend or foe?”

“What?”

“Friend or foe?”

“I’m his psychiatrist.”

“Right, AKA shrink. I had a girlfriend once who made me go to Gestalt therapy for two months before she dumped me. I’m still having goddamn flashbacks. Hear me? We don’t have a lot of time. King Kong will be here in about thirty seconds. His job is to break that kid. My job is to make him sound innocent and believable.”

Mickey Verona looked sternly at Alan over his spectacles and repeated slowly, “Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” said Alan. “I’m a friend.”

“Make sure of that.”

The door opened and Comstock entered with his lawful presence. The redheaded deputy slipped in after him and closed the door.

“Gentlemen,” said the massive cop, “you can observe, but don’t interfere.”

Mickey laughed. “That’s a good one. Use it on all the girls? I’ll need a moment with my client before you start. Mic off. And I’m going to sit right there next to him as you do your… thing.”

Comstock glowered at the lawyer, who was easily half his size. “Five minutes. Make it snappy, Verona. I don’t have all day for your bullshit.”

“Thank you. I missed you too.” Mickey flipped a red switch next to the two-way mirror, cutting off sound and communication to the interrogation room. “Dr. Smith here will be joining me, as he is the boy’s mental health provider.”

Alan could see Comstock’s face getting increasingly red and wondered if it could be a lawyer strategy to piss off the interrogator.

Francis watched them warily when they entered the room, but then, for an instant, he almost smiled before he went back to staring at the table.

“Hi, Francis. It’s me again,” said Alan.

Now the boy did smile. “You keep turning up,” he said.

“I do, like a bad penny. Francis, this is Mickey Verona. He’s going to be your lawyer.”

“Hi.”

“Hi there.” Mickey grabbed his free hand and shook it. “No time to get friendly, kid. Rule number one, you don’t say shit to the police unless I say so. Rule number two, you have to tell me everything, one hundred percent honesty. Got it?”

Francis nodded.

“Good. We have four minutes. Answer my questions.”

“Okay.”

“Francis, did you sexually assault Amy Taylor on October 29?”

“No… no!”

“Did you do anything pervy with her ever? You know, touch her tits, hand on ass, etcetera?”

“Mr. Verona, I don’t think—”

“Please, Dr. Smith, let me do my job. Francis?”

“I never did.”

“Did you try to attack Mx. Dale, physically or sexually?”

“No!”

“Then why did Mackenzie Winesworth punch you?”

Francis lowered his eyes to the table. “That guy hates my guts.”

A buzzer went off. Comstock’s voice came over the intercom. “Alright, Verona. Time’s up.”

Mickey gave a thumbs up at the window.

“Okay, kid. I’ll be right here next to you. Dr. Smith will be behind that window, watching the whole time.”

As Alan left the room, he had to step aside for Comstock coming through the door like a wild boar.

Deputy Wolf sat at the table next to Verona’s scuffed briefcase, a pad of paper in front of her.

“Why don’t you do the interview?” he asked.

“Comstock’s taking this one personally,” said Wolf. “I was the responding officer, so I have a right to follow up. If I don’t do this, it’s just another piece of procedure that gets incinerated in the barn fire that is Comstock.”

“I don’t see why he couldn’t stay at the clinic. We have security. He’s just a fucking kid.” His heart pumped. The muscles in his neck strained. If there had been a little glass ashtray like there always was in the old movies, he would have smashed it against the wall.

“Dr. Smith, I need to ask you something.” The deputy’s voice held that note of control that must have been handed out along with law enforcement badges.

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“Okay.”

“I was the one who processed Francis. You know… I cleaned him up and got him changed.” A tremble in her voice; her emerald gaze searching him for an answer. “What happened to him?”

“It’s not exactly something a kid explains in an essay,” said Alan. “You need to build a dialogue. Lay a foundation of trust. Kind of hard to do when a raving madman with a badge slams him against the wall.”

She looked down at the table. Her hands were small; An elegant finger tranced a vein in the faux-marble surface. “I’m sorry. I should have—”

“Look, Deputy—”

“Just Gwen. I don’t play the authority game. Comstock does that enough for the whole department.”

“Gwen. I don’t know what happened to him. He has a story. It’s hard to believe. I need more time.” Inside the interrogation room, Comstock was checking the boy’s shackles while Mickey shuffled through a notebook. Francis stared through the two-way mirror as if he could see beyond his own reflection, as if he were looking at Alan. “To be honest. I’m just his initial evaluator. I’m not… I mean… I don’t work with kids. They’ll assign him someone else.”

“The way you stood up to Comstock this morning. I hope you’re the one. What they’re going to do to him. He’ll need someone strong.”

Strong…

“The scars. Did he say anything to you?” asked Alan.

“No, but I’ve seen sever trauma before. I know a broken spirit. I didn’t put it in my report yet, but I’ll have to—soon.”

The speaker to the observation room came alive in tinny resonance with the lawyer’s voice. “Francis, this is Acting Sheriff Comstock. I’m sure he needs no introduction, right?”

Comstock leaned forward, hulking over the boy. “State your name and birthdate for the record.”

Francis looked at Mickey.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me,” Comstock barked.

“Saint-Francis Builds A Fire. March 15, 2160. But on my s-school papers, it just says F-Francis Builds A Fire. The S-Saint got lost somewhere.” He stumbled over the joke, falling quiet at the end; he had probably used before to break the awkward ice.

“Is this funny to you?” said Comstock.

“No, sir.”

“It better not be.”

The boy nodded. He picked at a scab on the back of his hand.

Alan felt his blood run cold. He wasn’t speaking to anyone as the words came out. “What did he say? His birthday?”

“3.15.59” Wolf read from her notes.

“Christ.” He rubbed his face with his hands; a clammy sweat from his brow transferred to his palms.

“What’s wrong?” said Wolf.

He could only shake his head. A vision of decking Paul Murphy played out before him.

“I need to remind you, Francis, that you’re in the custody of the Lake County Sheriff’s Department. You have been read your rights. Anything you say or do here can and will be used against you in a court of law. Your attorney is present.”

“I understand,” Francis whispered.

“You’re gonna have to speak up!”

“Sorry.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Objection,” Mickey said. “That question implies guilt. My client does not need to answer it. Don’t answer that, Francis.”

“For fuck’s sake, Verona, save it for the judge.”

Francis kept quiet.

Comstock rubbed the back of his bullish neck. “Francis, you’re here because Amy Taylor is in a hospital, and two witnesses say they saw you doing something to her. Additionally, one witness, Ms. Dale, says you tried to assault her too.”

“I didn’t Amy’s my friend. She’s nice to me. And why the hell would I want to touch Mx. Dale? Shi’s like a hundred.”

Mickey tried to hide a grin by looking at his notebook.

“Watch your tongue, boy.” Comstock shoved a finger in Francis’s face. “Then why did Ms. Dale say she saw you touching Amy?”

“Excuse me, Sheriff,” said Verona. He leaned over and whispered to Francis.

The boy nodded.

“I wasn’t doing anything bad to Amy.”

“Why were you touching her? You know about the ‘No Touch’ law?”

“Yeah. It’s a stupid law. Nobody follows it.”

“Apparently it’s there for a reason. I’ll ask again. Why were you touching Amy Taylor when Ms. Dale came into the room?”

“I had to.”

“Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said I had to. I had to touch her. That’s how it works.”

“That’s how what works?”

“Sheriff Comstock, my client already answered.”

“One more time, Verona, and I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation.” The cop’s hands were balled into fists on the table. “Francis, that’s how what works?”

“The enchantment,” implored Francis.

“Say again, what?”

“The magic,” said the boy, raising his chin, looking straight ahead, but not at the overbearing police officer, looking through the mirrored glass—at Alan.

“Does this magic involve any sexual—”

“Stop! Objection. My client has a right to consult with his mental health provider.”

“No,” said Comstock. “He answers the questions.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Verona. I’ll tell the truth.”

“Francis, Ms. Dale says she saw you touching Amy on her breast, and you were kissing her neck.”

“No. Mx. Dale is mistaken.”

“Are you saying Ms. Dale is lying?”

“No, but shi doesn’t know what shi saw. Shi doesn’t know what I was doing.”

“So, you were touching Amy Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Were you sexually aroused, Francis?”

“Comstock, damn it! Objection. Francis, don’t—”

“No. No. No!” Francis said, pressing his uncuffed hand to his forehead. “It’s not about sex. I was touching her heart. and I was touching her head. I was guiding her through it.”

“Guiding her through it?” Comstock laughed sardonically. “Is that what you call it? Just what exactly were you guiding her through?”

“Through the Veil!” Francis shouted, wiping tears from his one good eye with his loose sleeve.

“Sheriff, unless my client can consult, I will have this interrogation ruled inadmissible.”

Comstock slammed his fists on the table, making both Francis and Mickey jump. “I know what you’re doing, you greasy snake!” He pointed a trembling finger at the lawyer. “You’re angling to play the crazy card with this little pervert.”

“You’re not the court of law, Comstock,” retorted Verona.

“Francis?” Comstock pushed.

Francis clenched his fists and closed his eyes. “I was guiding her through…” The boy searched for the words. “Sh-she… was lost in there. I was helping her get through… It-it w-was s-so dark, and they were hunting her. She had heavy things, s-so I carried them for her and helped her b-because I w-was th-th-there before. I knew the way. It was dark, and and⁠—”

“Bullshit! That girl is lying in a hospital bed, not talking to anyone. What the hell did you do to her?”

With as much bravado as a thirteen-almost-fourteen-year-old boy could muster in the presence of a force like Comstock, Francis said, “It’s because… she’s still lost. She’s still there. But I think she saw it. I think she saw the path. Maybe she’ll be okay. I think she’ll get through it. Amy is strong, and smart.” Francis smiled and chewed on his fat lip.

Comstock’s chair screeched when he stood. “Shut up! Just shut up. You’re not helping yourself. No one is going to buy your lies. Francis Builds A Fire, I am remanding you into custody where you will await trial on the charges of aggravated sexual assault against Amy Taylor and the attempted assault of Dorothy Dale.”

“The prosecutor sets the charges, man.” Mickey shook his head.

“The prosecutor will back me up. You know it.” Comstock signaled the camera.

A deputy with a tattooed head entered through a door at the back of the room and unlocked Francis.

Mickey Verona whispered something to the boy and put a calming hand on his shoulder.

The man twisted Francis’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. Together, he and Comstock pulled Francis away into the jail’s depths.

“Oh my God,” said Deputy Wolf, letting out a sigh.

Alan’s heartbeat pounded in his chest.

Mickey Verona emerged from the interrogation room and picked up his briefcase. “Well, that went better than I had anticipated,” he said, pushing up his glasses.

“What the hell are you talking about? They’re going to charge him,” said Alan.

“They were always going to charge him,” he replied. He turned to Deputy Wolf. “What kind of outfit do you guys have going here? Sheriff Ryder is probably rolling in his grave.”

“Some of us try to be good cops,” she said.

Mickey shook his head. “By terrible coincidence, Amy Taylor’s father is John Taylor—state senator, former marine war hero, CEO of Taylor Securities, and contender for some big-ass role in Allgood’s administration.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” said Alan.

“Oh, it matters. Do you know what the news headlines are going to say tomorrow?

“No.”

“John Taylor does,” said Mickey. You should talk to the boy. He’s probably scared shitless.”

“I will. I need to make a phone call,” Alan said.

“They’re putting him in holding,” said Deputy Wolf.

“Holding? I want him in a juvenile unit,” said Mickey.

“We can’t put him in there. He could be around other children. You’ll have to petition the judge.”

“This place is insane,” said Alan.

“Like I said, some of us try to be good cops.” She put a reassuring hand on his arm. “I have desk duty for the next few days. I’ll do my best to ensure he’s treated fairly.”

“Ahem,” the lawyer cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m hungry, and we got a lot of work to do, Dr. Smith. Let’s make it a working lunch. Here’s my office. Stop by. Ask for Mickey.” He handed Alan a business card.

“Dee’s? Your office is the diner by the lake?”

“Yep, booth C-3 in the back. I find a constant supply of food and coffee helps me think.”