Men sometimes need to be followed to their own minds. And sometimes dragging you speeds the journey.

For the first time in my life, I’m going to obey Grandma not because I have to but because she’s right.

“I’m supposed to pretend to hate him. I’ll be on the other side of the glass. Those aren’t the right conditions to soften him up.”

“If you think I’m letting you on the other side of that glass…” With effort, he slides his leg off the chair. “You’re nuts. I already don’t like the influence he has on you.” He struggles to stand. He’s hiding incredible pain. I rush over to help him.

“Daddy’s cane is at the apartment if you want me to bring it by.”

“Sure. And you’re right. It’s a bad idea, you going down there.” Once he’s sitting straight, he knocks on the desk and shouts in the direction of the door. “Ray! Get in here!”

Did I push too far? Asking to stay on my side isn’t going to help. Asking for anything won’t get me in to see Dario. But every second of waiting for my next opportunity to ask, or sneak, or pry up the floorboards until I find him is going to hurt.

Ray bursts in the door with his sunny smile, ready to do man’s work.

The other two men follow, and without another word, I am dismissed.

I have to trust the seed I’ve planted.

CHAPTER 10

DARIO

I can do one hundred pushups, but on my third crunch, the stitches in my side threaten to open. Out of boredom, I put the bed on its side and grip the two top legs to do pullups. The wooden frame creaks every time. Through it all, my mind remains as clear as it’s been since Sarah wiped away the cobwebs by putting her hands on the glass.

She’s coming back. I don’t know when, because I can’t feel the passage of time, but she’s coming. Next time she’s here, we have to prove I despise her and that she hates and fears me.

The trap at the bottom of the door opens and my dirty tray is whisked away.

“Thank you,” I call to the person—likely a woman—responsible for keeping me alive.

A new tray comes under the door. My shirt comes right after. It’s been laundered and repaired. This dump is half a step better than Guantanamo Bay.

I sniff the lentils for anything off. There’s nothing rank or chemical—same as always. I don’t have any utensils, so I stir with my finger. A hard right angle stabs through the surface, red liquid sliding down to reveal shining silver metal. I pick it out then drop it back into the bowl, where it floats like a steel life raft in a lake of raw sewage.

A razor blade.

Like a booby-trapped Halloween apple, there’s a straight edge razor in my soup. I stare at it.