“You’re right.” I slid down in my chair. “We don’t need details like names of schools—sorry, institutes—or people.”

He sighed. “Okay, then. I’m just trying to get this file done so we can properly catalog inventory, but I think maybe you need some more time to think about how you want this to go.”

I sighed and stretched out my legs till my feet hit his desk. “Sure thing, I’ll just get comfortable. Inventory likes to relax every now and then.”

“Oh, no, not in here.” He stood, pushing his chair out. “This room is for people who work and those who cooperate with people working. No, I think you should go back to your quarters.” He reached behind him, in between two windows, and pressed a small white button. There was a high-pitched buzzing outside the door.

The panic that kicked up my throat matched that sound. It was sharp and sudden. “Back to my quarters? Now, hold on—”

“No, it’s become quite clear that you need a little more time. Not to worry, we’ll book another round in a few days.”

I tried to stand, but my legs were jelly. “But I’m starving in there. You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I am serious.” He had two hands on his tie now, like the snake was trying to strangle him. “It happens—don’t feel special. Sometimes it takes three or four tries.” He paused, his hands moving to his belt.

Breathing was getting hard, and black spots were swarming over my vision. “No wait, wait—”

“I don’t think I would believe any sudden change of heart you might have now. It’s clear you’re resistant. And that’s okay, buddy. It happens.”

“Buddy?” The door behind me clicked open, and the light from the hallway streamed into the semi-dark. My escort had returned, and this time he had another man with him, one even bigger and wider than the first, both in black. “Wait!”

They each grabbed me by an arm, easily prying my fingers off the arms of the chair. And then I was up and on my toes, almost levitating in their grasp.

“I’ll expect you back here in a better mood soon.” The interviewer stepped around the desk, buttoning his suit jacket. “And then we can talk.” He had a pronounced limp that did nothing to diminish his malice.

“NO! NO! Wait!” I struggled against being pulled backward from the room. I was through the door when the interviewer walked into the hallway light after us and I saw his face for the first time.

Short dark hair, closely cropped around the sides, narrow brown eyes—not unkind, even now—and a small chip in his front tooth. I heard his voice again, but this time as a child. Too late, buddy; they know someone’s up here, just not how many someones.

“Mitch?”

His eyes narrowed, nose scrunched the way it always did when he was really thinking. His mouth opened, and he pulled a hand out of his pocket to cover it before reaching out with the other to grab the door frame. His eyes got all big, like they did when he figured something out.