The first voice drones as though the speaker is reading from a report. “During his initial interrogation, he claims the men were led to a room farther down the hall in a”—a pause while he scrolls through his notes—“a school building. The men were brought to the math room. Subject claims his father was led there with thirteen other men and shot. Allegedly, their bodies were dumped out of the window.” The speaker lets out a bureaucratic sigh. “This boy is the village’s only survivor.”

“Unlucky for him,” the second voice says, chuckling. “I am betting that he claims that God spared him because he only spared those with a higher purpose. Well, we will show him his higher purpose.”

Static distorts the voice for a second. Then a brief image of jungle, then a sunbathed road filled with pedestrians and vendors shouting their wares from their stalls. Then static.

Ify’s vision becomes clearer, and she sees that she is in a dark, dank room. Somewhere underground. Maybe abandoned. Water drips into a puddle somewhere outside of her vision. When she looks down, she sees that she’s bound to a metal chair. She’s in Peter’s body. Sounds echo, but she believes this is the type of place where sounds are made that aren’t supposed to be heard aboveground.

“Well, let’s get this over with, and we can bring him back to his cell upstairs.”

Two men, the speakers, walk into the room, and Ify feels Peter’s fingers clench into fists, where they’re bound behind his chair. They wear all black and don’t bother hiding their faces. Their hands are gloved. One of them is older, his face like it was carved from obsidian it’s so expressionless. The other is already grinning, and Ify, in Peter’s body, feels their heart race. Their jaw clenches. Tears spring to their eyes. Even though their legs are bound to those of the metal chair, their feet scuffle madly against the ground.

Static. A kitchen. Stew is cooking over a pot. A woman stirs with a massive wooden spoon. A hand—Ify-Peter’s hand—reaches over. The woman smacks it. Static.

“So,” says the first man, pulling at the gloves on his hands. “Let’s talk about that higher purpose of yours.” He walks to a side wall and comes back with something buzzing and sizzling in the palm of one hand.

Ify-Peter squirms in their seat, then thrashes as the interrogator comes near. When the interrogator is close enough, they see that there are bees buzzing in the man’s hand, their metal carapaces glistening with light from a source they can’t find. “Please.” More thrashing. “Please, please no more.”

Static blitzes out the vision, then everything comes back.

“We don’t believe your story,” the second interrogator says.