“I wanna go home,” she said, her voice shaky and childlike. “I want—”

“You can go home, Shirley,” Orson said. “I just want to talk to you. That’s all. Let me preface what we’re going to do by asking you a few questions. Do you know what preface means, Shirley?”

“Yes.”

“This is just a hunch, but when I look at you, I don’t see someone who spends much time in the books. Am I right?” She shrugged. “What’s the last thing you read?”

“Um …Heaven’s Kiss.”

“Is that a romance?” he asked, and she nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry, that doesn’t count. You see, romance novels are shit. You could probably write one. Go to college by chance?”

“No.”

“Finish high school?”

“Yes.”

“Whew. Scared me there for a minute, Shirley.”

“Take me back,” she begged. “I want my husband.”

“Stop whining,” he said, and tears trickled down her face again, but Orson let them go. “My brother’s here tonight,” he said, “and that’s a lucky coincidence for you. He’s gonna ask you five questions on anything—philosophy, history, literature, geography, whatever. You have to answer at least three correctly. Do that and I’ll take you back to the bowling alley. That’s why you’re blindfolded. Can’t see my face if I’m gonna let you go, now can you?” Timidly, she shook her head. Orson’s voice dropped to a whisper, and leaning in, he spoke into her ear just loudly enough for me to hear also: “But if you answer less than three questions correctly, I’m gonna cut your heart out.”

Shirley moaned. Clumsily dismounting the stool, she tried to run, but the chain jerked her to the floor.

“Get up!” Orson screamed, stepping down from his stool. “If you aren’t sitting on that stool in five seconds, I’ll consider it a forfeiture of the test.” Shirley stood up immediately, and Orson helped her back onto the stool. “Calm down, sweetheart,” he said, his voice recovering its sweetness. “Take a breath, answer the questions, and you’ll be back with your husband and—do you have kids?”

“Three,” she said, weeping.

“With your husband and your three beautiful children before morning.”

“I can’t do it,” she whined.

“Then you’ll experience an agonizing death. It’s all up to you, Shirley.”

The single bare lightbulb that illuminated the room flickered, throwing the shed into bursts of darkness. Orson sighed and stood up on his stool. He tightened the bulb, climbed down, and walked to my chair. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he said, “Fire away, Andy.”

“But…” I swallowed. “Please, Orson. Don’t do—”

Leaning down, he whispered into my ear so the woman couldn’t hear: “Ask the questions or I’ll do her in front of you. It won’t be pleasant. You might close your eyes, but you’ll hear her. The whole desert’ll hear her. But if she gets them right, I will let her go. I won’t rescind that promise. It’s all in her hands. That’s what makes this so much fun.”