Barry woke up to a pinching pain in his right hip. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he slept long enough for his bones and muscles to become stiff. The cot was not meant for his weight and the canvas sagged below the frame. Barry didn't fit within that frame and he found it difficult to roll out of the damned thing.

Much like Doyle’s recliner, Barry had to drop his leg down and slide over the metal frame. Once standing, he realized that the boy’s cot was empty. Panic flared, but for only an instant, as Barry noticed the others were still sleeping.

Kid’s probably using the bucket. Good. He’s awake, now!

Barry headed toward the latrine area. He quietly called for the boy and got no response. Barry approached the bucket and saw nobody on it.

“I’m glad you’re awake, son. We were worried about you.” Barry tried to sound concerned and worried, even though that was exactly what he was. “Are you still in here?” Barry searched the nearest aisles. He reached the end of a section and turned to walk toward the kitchen area.

“There you are.” Barry spotted the boy at the table.

Barry approached the boy from the side and continued to make his presence known. He got closer and heard the soft snores escaping from the boy’s unseen mouth. Barry stepped up to the boy, but now he was trying to be unheard. He confirmed the boy was sleeping and was about to head back to his cot, but he noticed a stack of copy paper and two pages with writing.

Barry read the note with the big giant letters, first. It wasn’t intentional. The paper had only two words on it, and they were huge words.

“I’M DEAF”

NO SHIT! Poor fucking kid. He must be terrified.

Barry hadn’t been a father for years, but seeing this deaf boy alone in all this mess made Barry want to hug him tight and tell him not to worry. He nearly put his hand on the boy’s shoulder but didn’t want to risk startling him. Instead, Barry picked up the other piece of paper, and read it.

"My name is Joel Lott. I am a kid, from this town. The last thing I remember, before waking up here, was talking to some man at the gas station. I need to get to my dad. If you would be willing to help me do that, we can pay you when we get home. Also, I ate some of the MREs. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I was afraid to wake you guys. I’ll pay for them or work it off. I was just very hungry.

I am deaf and I believe I hit my head because it hurts pretty bad. If anybody knows how to sign, that would be great, but I doubt they do. I also took some paper and pencils. I couldn’t find anything else to do, so I wrote this letter and I drew a bit.

Please, don’t be mad at me for the food and stuff. I will pay for it."

Barry saw a few pieces of paper turned facedown. He flipped the first one over and there was an amazingly detailed sketch of a middle-aged man. Barry flipped through the rest of the sketches. There was a rough attempt at a farmscape, the beginnings of the inside of the metal shop they were in, a few cartoonish characters, and—

The last sheet floated back to the table. Barry knew that face. Of course, the boy would have seen the kidnapper, too. Barry didn’t understand why Joel drew the kidnapper, but he was relieved to read that Joel didn’t remember being kidnapped. That was good fucking news. Nobody needed the memory of what went down in that trailer, especially not some innocent kid. Barry found himself angry. He hadn’t processed the recent events. Everything was, too, chaotic. Barry was so consumed with getting answers about the bombs, the freakishly strong kidnapper, and the mysterious rescuer that had super healing, that he hadn't slept, and his mind was fresh, but the traumas caught up to him.

A visibly irritated Barry snatched up the sketch and stormed off. He walked up to the cot that held the still-sleeping Cass. Anger pushed him toward shaking her awake. Barry even reached out to place his hand on her shoulder, but remembered that this woman held her own against the man that toyed with Barry. There was no way of knowing how she would react to him being aggressive with her. He was big, and he was a man, but Barry was not a chauvinistic asshat. When it came to throwing blows, Barry was rarely afraid of anybody. When he was, it was usually just a matter of size…there were women bigger and stronger than him. Cass was nowhere close to being bigger than Barry, but he suspected she could roll him up like a burrito.

Barry took a few steps from her cot and pulled up a nearby chair.

“Hey, Cass.” He spoke softly, and Cass did not stir. Barry repeated her name a few times, with increasing loudness.

“What is it?” Cass grumbled.

“It’s time for some answers.” Barry sounded like he was giving her an order. It was not forceful, but his tone sounded like he would push the matter.

“Are you being serious?” Cass questioned, lifting her head over her shoulder, and looking at Barry.

Barry didn’t know if that look was from irritation, anger, or just plain sleepiness, but she didn’t look like a person ready to chit-chat. Barry instinctively shifted his posture and leaned against the back of the chair. He didn’t smile, but he was almost smiling. He paired the almost-smile with placing both his palms against his chest and letting his shoulders and head lean out over his rotund gut.

“I’m sorry to wake you.” Barry lied.

He had always been big. There was a time when he was more muscle, than fat; but for most of his life, he carried around extra weight. Barry was more than experienced at knowing how to use his size to intimidate. He was also a master at appearing smaller and softer. Round the square shoulders, slouch forward, and move slowly.

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The fat prejudice was more than physical. For some reason, most people saw the overweight as dumber. As if a certain IQ is required to be smart enough to maintain a lean figure. Barry had the brains to disprove that theory, but he also had the brains to use those stereotypes to his advantage. He would use simple words and repeat questions back; like he needed to repeat the words, to understand them. It was all a way to disarm himself, so to speak. Barry needed to appear the big teddy bear, or he risked putting Cass on the defensive.

“I have something you need to see.”

Cass rolled over and looked at Barry. She cocked her head and gave Barry a look that said, “Well, let’s have it already”.

Barry could tell she was exhausted. She tried to keep her head up and look at him, but before Barry spoke, her eyes began to sink and her head tipped toward the pillow.

“The boy’s awake.” Barry was startled as Cass bolted up to a seated position.

“Thank God! Where is he?

“Well, he was awake.” He corrected himself. “He woke up while we were sleeping. He passed back out at the table.”

Cass noticed the black and grey sketch in Barry’s hand and asked what it was. Barry held the paper up for her to see. Cass slowly stood and gently took the paper from Barry.

“He drew that. Joel, the boy, did. There are others, but that one—” Barry pointed at the sketch. “That one is of the kidnapper.”

Cass looked up at Barry and shook her head, then held the paper out for Barry to take back.

“Bless his heart. No telling what he saw. No telling what he remembers.” Cass’s voice was soft and somber.

“Not much.” Barry stood and retrieved Joel’s sketch.

“How do you know?” Cass tilted her head, like a confused puppy.

“There’s a note on the table. He left it for us to read,” Barry informed her. “He remembers talking to him—” Barry held the sketch up.

“Dillon.” Cass interrupted.

“What?”

“The man in the sketch. I’m pretty sure his name is Dillon. That’s what the man hand-pumping the diesel kept yelling when your friend was stomping him into the concrete. Dillon must be that guy’s name.” She pointed at the sketch.

“Well, all the kid remembers is talking to—” Barry turned the sketch and stared at it for a moment. He saw the face and remembered being lifted off the ground and having his trachea crushed. “This Dillon. And according to his note, he was unaware of anything that happened, other than talking.”

“That’s good news.” Cass took a breath and sighed with relief.

“Lady, that’s not good news. You saw what was in that trailer. I’ve seen some fucked up shit, but goddam, Cass, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those people in the trailer. If that boy escaped from that trailer and never remembers anything that went down then that is fantastic fucking news.”

Cass giggled and admitted that it was fantastic fucking news. She sat back on her cot, but when she looked up, her mirth drained away as she saw Barry glaring at her. She had no idea what she did, but the look on his face seemed angry, or disappointed maybe.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Barry quit trying to look unassuming and straightened in his chair. He seemed to grow taller, and his gut became less plump. Those soft shoulders lifted and became square. The triangular muscles that connected his thick neck to his broad shoulders lifted his shirt collar. All the soft adipose was padding for a very densely muscled frame.

“I’m terrified,” Barry spoke low and monotone.

“Sweaty, we all are.” Cass tried to reassure him.

“I don’t get terrified, lady. The most terrifying thing I ever knew was having a sick kid and not knowing what would happen, but that was like a dreadful fear. Afraid that my kid is dying. That made me feel helpless…hopeless. I’ve never felt in danger. Never felt vulnerable. I’ve never had another person just drag me around like that Dillon guy did.”

Cass pulled her legs into the cot and crossed them. She leaned forward and tried to comfort Barry, with a smile.

“There’s always somebody bigger, as they say.” She winked at him, and her smile spread wider.

Barry stood up so quickly, that he sent his chair sliding backward. To Cass’s credit, she did not respond to his sudden rise to his feet. Barry looked into her eyes as if he were searching for something.

“Don’t bullshit me.” His words were not a warning, but more about making it clear that it was a waste of time to lie. “The strongest man on Earth couldn’t chunk my fat ass around like that if he trained for the rest of his life.” Barry turned and pulled his chair back under him. When he faced Cass, again, his demeanor was soft again. “Don’t lie to us, please. Don’t patronize me. Don’t gaslight. The truth—” he paused, “please, Cass?”

“I don’t know what you want fro—”

“I cleaned your wounds.” Barry blurted.

Cass smiled and thanked him, but Barry did not relax his stoic glare.

“Enough. Your wounds were no more than a few hours old, but every one of them has already healed enough to start scarring.” Barry got back in the chair, again. “When you got to this shop, your ass looked like somebody buried a knife in it.”

Cass twisted around and craned her head to look at her butt.

“The other ass cheek.”

She twisted the other way and noticed the torn fabric and her exposed cheek. There was a thin slit of dried scab running vertically, toward her waist. She slowly faced forward but did not meet Barry’s eyes.

“Thanks for doing that.” She whispered. “It wasn’t necessary.”

Barry couldn’t see her face with her head angled downward, but he assumed she was embarrassed about having a strange man tending to her butt wound.

“I know that now.” Barry joked. “But how?”

Her head lifted and she blew a huge sign before she collapsed onto her cot. She looked like a mummy, with her hands folded onto her chest and her legs straight and together. Cass stared at the ceiling and spoke.

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“I’m not supposed to eat red meat.” Barry wasn’t trying to be funny. It was to remind Cass that people do things they aren’t supposed to do.

“I could get into trouble.”

“I could die.” Barry leaned forward and whispered her name. Cass turned his way. “I almost did die.”

She did not reply but looked at him for a long moment. Barry could tell she was sizing him up, but he wasn’t sure if it was to kick his ass; or to decide if she would tell him.

“What was with the bombs? What was with the Dillon guy? What is the deal with you? What is this shop for?” Barry pushed.

She went back to staring at the ceiling, and Barry feared he had pushed her too hard.

“Fine,” Cass whined. “Let’s go wake up the kid and get him up to speed about how he got here, and then we can grab the other two. I’ll explain, what I can, and then we need to get a move on.”

“Get a move on?” Barry repeated, but not because he was trying to fake being less intelligent.

“Barry—we will cover everything.”

Barry nodded and they walked toward the sleeping teenager.