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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I pull him on top of me. I release the bottom of his shirt and grab him by the collar. He tries to push off me.

He can’t.

I push him up by the neck of his shirt, then yank him down violently. I angle my head upward. Ewen’s face smashes into the crown of my head with a sickening crunch.

The blow dazes me.

When I shake it off, Ewen is lying on top of me. He is out cold.

I roll him off me with my left hand, sending him to the ground four feet below.

I release the velcro strap on my neck, then my right arm, then both feet.

I jump off the table.

Ewen is on his back. His face is destroyed, his nose turned upward and leaking blood by the gallon.

He begins to squirm and I kneel down and check him for the gun. He doesn’t have it.

“Whaaa,” he moans.

I lift him up and put him on the table. Then I strap him down with the velcro restraints.

Then I leave the White Room.

I find some gauze and tape in the medical supplies and I wrap my hand. The gun is on a table next to a computer and I stick it in the waist of my pants.

It is 3:19 a.m. when I return to the White Room.

Ewen is wide awake now.

He cranes his neck upward.

“What are you doing? You can’t do this!” he screams.

“Little different being on the other side of things,” I say.

I pick the syringe off the floor and hover over him.

“My mom was brave enough to test this stuff out on herself, but something tells me you were too big of a pussy. Well, it’s time to rectify that. I can only imagine, with all the shit you’ve seen, what will haunt your nightmares.”

He begs me not to. “Please! Please!”

I lower the syringe.

He screams four words.

They stop me cold.

“What?” I ask.

“I can fix you,” he says.

:18

“Fix me?” I ask. “What do you mean you can fix me?”

His chest is convulsing in panic. He strains his neck against the restraint and says, “I can reset your sleep cycle.”

“I thought you said only my mother would know if that was possible?”

He shakes his head. “Your brain is like a hard drive; all you have to do is wipe it clean.”

I stare at him.

I look at the syringe.

I think of Ingrid.

I think of our limited time together.

“I swear,” he says. “It will work.”

I take a deep breath, recap the syringe and put it in my pocket. I decide to at least hear him out.

“Have you done this before?” I ask.