“Where’s Rox?” Cassie said. “I did what you said, now I want to see him.”

Imagine having versions of yourself in varying ages. I had my own questions, but none more pressing than Cassie’s, so I held my tongue.

“I am happy to take you to him. As you’ll soon see, he’s doing extremely well. I think you’ll be delighted.”

“Bullshit.” I grabbed her bare forearm, loose skin and bone. “This isn’t a game anymore. Give us our son and let us go.” I could feel her blood pumping against my hand.

“When has this ever been a game?” she said. Had this person also been abused by camp counselors at Love Week? Watched the light fade from her daddy’s dying eyes? Danced in a basement full of boys while high on ecstasy? Did they all have to endure the same torments, or was each version subjected to a different section of hell? I released her. Pitied her. Goddamn it, Malia’s a clone.

So many thoughts and questions swirled through my muddled brain but only one mattered. “Where’s Rox?”

“I told you, safe. Safer than he’s ever been with you.” These cutting words contrasted against her wry smile.

“Where is he?” I said.

The older lady stood in between Cassie and me. In this rundown room of a cabin fit to collapse. A town not listed on any map, crawling with monstrosities. She tugged at the front of her jacket, smoothed her ruffled skirt. “What if I told you,” she said, “that Rox was better off without you? That we could restore the brain you wrecked. Allow him to enjoy the same quality of life as any able-minded boy and mature into a productive man. But that you would have to let him go.”

No, this was not a game. “Where is he?” I said.

She skewered me once again with those preternatural eyes. “Would you do it?”

“We’re not leaving without our son,” Cassie said.

“And who does that benefit?” Malia said. “You or him? Would you not leave him in the care of a specialist who could restore his mental processes? Or would you take him home in his present condition where he cries from loud noises and can’t tie his own shoes?”

“Stop it,” I said. “This isn’t the fucking Mayo Clinic. Cut the bullshit.”

“No, it’s not,” Malia said. “They can’t offer him the same opportunities in life that we can.”

Her dress looked black in the dim lighting. Cassie’s face was a half-moon.

“Where is he?” I said. It was the only question that mattered.

Malia smiled. Age had darkened her teeth. “Let’s go see.”