I want to go home so bad it’s beyond anything I’ve wanted before. Rewind the tape to where? I wonder. To just before I read the book or further back, I don’t know.

They take Cassie and Rox away in a police car with darkened windows. She doesn’t protest, and neither do I. We huddle together, but again, I’m the wobbly third wheel, only wanting distance between us.

“Be safe,” she says, like I have any control over that. No hug; no kiss goodbye. “We’ll be waiting for you.” I plan to stay far away.

I hover over Rox, but he shies away from me. My eyes open so wide he’s blurred. I’m wrestling with the rage inside me to get my words through, shouting from the far side of a boundless chasm. “Be good, son.” Because that’s all I want from him. That’s all we need. For people to keep pumping goodness into the world, regardless of their plot in life. For people to fight against this resisting force.

I don’t recall them being driven away. Whether I waved, offered a final farewell. I don’t even know how long ago it was. Don’t know where I am. Thankfully there are no mirrors in here. Just a place to eat, to shit, to sleep, and most importantly to write.

A stack of papers. An old-timey quill pen. How many times has this story been told? Since the beginning of time?

I’m no writer, but Doctor O told me not to worry. I realize, as I pick up the pen, he’s right. The story’s inside of me, and wants to come out. Being pushed forth by the compelling force within. Encoded with hazardous symbols. Malignant seeds planted in your subconscious, soon to sprout and unfurl their deadly bloom.

I told you not to read this book, but it’s too late for you now. He’s planted the beacon, and there’s no getting it out. No way to purge it from your mind. Whatever you do, don’t look in the mirror. Ransack your home for surveillance devices, or better yet, move. Now that the story has ended, your time has come. Maybe a week or so from now. Maybe tonight.

I’m so sorry to have subjected you to this. I had to, for my son.

But I’m not done fighting. In fact, the war has just begun.

I’m going back to making music now, although this new guitar feels ungainly in my arms. And my companion howls in fury when I play. Music is my weapon. Every note I strum is a shot fired across the bow. And with every shot I grow stronger. But then my mind goes blank and I wake up with fuzzy memories of time wasted and wonder how much progress I’ve lost, or if I’ve made any at all.