“He was so aggressive,” the girl said. “Talking real strange. Lionel and me were just hiking around and having a laugh. Not hurting anyone. I don’t even think it was that late. But that guy was really spazzing out.”

“Can you define what you mean by ‘spazzing out’?” the lady asked.

“Well, he rushed at us with a knife. And he had this ferocious dog. I knew the boy wasn’t supposed to be there. We tried to convince him to break free, but I think the man had some type of hold on him. Mental hold.”

“What?” I yelled that out.

“So Rowan was not there willingly?” the lady asked.

“No, not at all. We should’ve tried to save him.” The girl looked over her shoulder. “Mom?”

“You didn’t know.” The mother put her hand on the girl’s back. “We’re all praying for young Rowan. That he finds his way home.”

My mouth was full open now, and my face was pulsing with heat. No longer in a nice way. I could feel Carl behind me, pacing back and forth, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen.

The newsman appeared again, rifling through papers on his desk. “Police believe Rowan Janes is being held by this man.”

Being held?

That didn’t make any sense. Then a photo flashed up. Two men, side by side. One clean and shaven, one bent, dirty, and peering away. I squinted, crawled even closer to the television. A narrow shard of glass jabbed in my palm. I pulled it out and squeezed my thumb over the bleeding puncture. Both men were familiar. Could they be? Yes, they were pictures of Carl.

“His name is Howard Gill,” the man said. “Call authorities if you see either Rowan Janes or Howard Gill. Do not approach them. Howard Gill is known to be dangerous.”

Who’s Howard Gill? He looks exactly like Carl.

“Enough, enough, enough!” Carl screamed. He rushed past me, slammed the knob with his foot. The image collapsed into a white dot and vanished. I scuttled backward.

“They got me, the Workers. Stan said they would. Stan was right all along. Stan knew. Urh. Urh. He tried to warn me. Warn me. Urh. They caught me inside that box.”

“Carl,” I said. “You got to listen to me. There’s nothing real in a tele—”

In one swift move he grabbed the cement man with the headache and, with an awful cry from deep within him, he thrust it at the television. The screen splintered, inside something burst, sparked, and smoke drifted out the front. Carl stomped on the glass then reached behind the TV and tore the plug from the wall.