Somewhere, the sound of the ocean.

Louis is bound to a wooden chair next to the lighthouse lantern. A dizzying array of optics sits above his head. Brown extension cords affix his wrists to the chair arms, and another pair holds his feet to the chair legs. His head is held fast by black electrical tape wrapped around his forehead, fastening his skull to base of the lighthouse's pedestal clockworks.

A tall, thin man approaches. He is entirely hairless. No eyebrows. No eyelashes, even.

In one of his smooth, spidery hands he holds a long fillet knife.

The man admires the blade for a moment, though it is pocked with rust and smells not-too-faintly of fish guts.

"Get away from me," Louis stammers. "Who are you? Who are you people? I don't have what you want!"

"That no longer matters," the man says. He has an accent. Nebulous. European.

The man moves preternaturally fast. He stabs Louis in the left eye with the knife. It does not go to the brain, and only ruins the eye: a choice the hairless man has made. Louis screams. The attacker withdraws the knife. It makes a sucking sound as he extracts it.

His thin lips form a mirthless smile.

He pauses. He admires.

Louis's good eye darts to somewhere over the man's shoulder.

"Miriam?" Louis asks, but it's too late. The man stabs him again, this time through the right eye, and this time, all the way to the hilt. All the way to the brain.

FOUR

The Million-Dollar Question

She can still hear the sound as the knife pulls out of the one eye and the sound as it plunges into the other. And him speaking her name… Miriam? It bounces around her skull like a ricocheting bullet.

Her hand feels like it's touching a hot stove. She gasps and jerks, pulling it away.

Her head slams into the passenger side window. Not enough to crack it, but enough where she sees stars. The unlit cigarette drops from her lips and tumbles into her lap.

"Do you know me?" she asks, blinking away the white spots. Louis, of course, looks confused.

"I don't know if anybody knows anybody," he says.

"No!" she barks, sharp, too sharp, and shakes her head. "I mean, have we met? We don't know each other?"

Louis still has his hand hanging out there from where she grabbed it, but now he slowly pulls back, like any fast movement might cause him to lose it.

"No. We don't know each other."

She rubs her eyes. "Do you know anyone named Miriam?"

"I don't think so. No."

He's watching her now like she's a rattlesnake. He's got one hand on the wheel and the other hanging free – just in case the rattlesnake decides to bite, she thinks. He probably thinks she's on drugs. If only.

Shit. She knows how this adds up. This is a bad equation. Her guts roil.

"Stop the truck," she says.

"What? The truck? No. Let me get to a–"