He stopped—let this settle in. Sly Boy squirmed. His chains clanked wretchedly. Kitty whimpered and flinched. She had placed the box on the floor at her knees. The lid was still on, but she noticed blood leaking from a seam at the bottom—such an abhorrent detail, and she averted her eyes quickly. She looked up at Johan, lost and scared.

“Very brutal. Incredibly painful.” A cold smirk curled Johan’s upper lip. “Some scholars believe that keeping you alive while hacking the ribs from your spine would be impossible without modern medical equipment, that you would die before your lungs were removed.”

“Don’t do this, Johan,” Kitty croaked. She linked her hands like she used to as a child, reciting her nightly prayers. “Please, whatever this is about, we can—”

“Whatever this is about? Oh, Kitty, you disappoint me.” He stood over her, wisps of blond hair hanging across his face, then turned on his heels and walked over to Sly Boy. “How about you, Kris? You know why you’re here?”

“No, I . . . I . . .” Pinkish saliva dangled from Sly Boy’s lower lip. “I told you, man. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“One of you is lying. Or both.”

The pipes dripped, and for a while this was the only sound, so diminutive compared to how vast everything else had become. Johan stood with his head low, lost in thought—Rodin’s Thinker in an alternate pose. He then walked beyond Kitty and Sly Boy, out of sight, although his heels could be heard clicking across the floor.

Sly Boy spluttered and spat between his hands. He shifted position, as much as the chains would allow. His good eye rolled slowly toward Kitty. She couldn’t read the expression in it.

“I don’t know,” she said, not to Sly Boy, but in regard to everything: the flooded world. It was impossible to believe that she had woken up in Kentucky that morning, listening to her mama sing while she dressed for church. What Kitty would give to be there now, snuggled up in her childhood bed, the sweet aroma of milkweed blowing through the open windows. Tears filled her eyes and she slumped, but Xander was there to hold her up. His hand was as hard as a bear’s jaw.

The sound of Johan’s footsteps echoed in the dimness, growing louder as he returned to the patch of damp cement between Sly Boy and Kitty. He walked another dilatory figure eight. The ax in his hand had a glimmering, hooked blade and a long handle, beautifully engraved.

Kitty wiped her eyes and listened to the dripping pipes, imagining she could catch the water in her cupped palms and drink it—take on its smallness until she disappeared.