Unwind

The junior pastor leans forward. "You need to give the other boys a chance. They're all good kids."

"Well maybe I'm not!" Lev can't help but look at the clock again. Twelve fifty. Mai and Blaine will be in place in ten minutes, and what if he's still here in this stinking office? Won't that be just great.

"Have somewhere you need to be?" the counselor asks. "You keep checking the time."

Lev knows his answer needs to make sense or they truly will become suspicious of him. "I ... I heard the kid who kidnapped me was being unwound today. I was just wondering if it had happened yet."

The pastors look at one another and at the counselor, who leans back in his chair, as calm as can be. "If he hasn't been, he will be shortly. Lev, I think it would be healthy for you to discuss what happened to you while you were held hostage. I'm sure it was horrible, but talking about it can take away the power of the memory. I'd like to hold a special group tonight with your unit. It will be a time for you to share with the others what you've been holding inside. I think you'll find they'll be very understanding."

"Tonight," says Lev. "Okay. Fine. I'll talk about everything tonight. Maybe you're right and it will make me feel better."

"We just want to ease your mind," says one of the pastors.

"So, can I go now?"

The counselor studies him for a moment more. "You seem so tense. I'd like to talk you through some guided relaxation exercises. . . ."

63 Guard

He hates his job, he hates the heat, he hates that he has to stand in front of the Chop Shop for hours guarding the doors, making sure no one unauthorized enters or leaves. He had dreams back in StaHo of starting a business with his buddies, but no one loans start-up money to StaHo kids. Even after he changed his last name from Ward to Mullard—the name of the richest family in town—he couldn't fool anyone. Turns out half the kids from his state home took on that name when they left, figuring they could outsmart the world. In the end, he outsmarted no one but himself. The best he could do was find a series of unfulfilling jobs in the year he's been out of StaHo—the most recent of which is being a harvest camp guard.

On the roof, the band has started its afternoon set. At least that helps the time to pass a little more quickly.

Two Unwinds approach, and climb the steps toward him. They're not being escorted by guards and both carry plates covered with aluminum foil. The guard doesn't like the look of them. The boy's a flesh-head. The girl is Asian.

"What do you want? You're not supposed to be here."

"We were told to give this to the band." They both look nervous and shifty. This is nothing new. All Unwinds get nervous near the Chop Shop—and to the guard, all Unwinds look shifty.

The guard peeks under the aluminum foil. Roast chicken. Mashed potatoes. They do send food up to the band once in a while, but usually it's staff that carries the food, not Unwinds. "I thought they just had lunch."

"Guess not," says the flesh-head. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere in the world but standing in front of the Chop Shop, so the guard decides to draw it out, making them stand there even longer.

"I'll have to call this in," he says. He pulls out his phone and calls the front office. He gets a busy signal. Typical. The guard wonders which he'd get in more trouble for—letting them bring the food in, or turning them away if they really were sent by administration. He considers the plate in the girl's hands. "Let me see that." He peels back the foil and takes the largest chicken breast. "Go in through the glass doors, and the stairs are to your left. If I see you go anywhere but up the stairs, I'll come in there and tranq you so fast, you won't know what hit you."

Once they're inside, they're out of sight, out of mind. He doesn't know that although they went into the stairwell, they never brought the food to the band—they just ditched the plates. And he never noticed the little round Band-Aids on their palms.

64 Co

Co

"Co

He turns to see two guards at the entrance. Around him, most of the kids have left the unit for their afternoon activity. The ones that remain take a quick glance at the guards, and at Co

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"Your presence is requested at the harvest clinic," says the first guard. The other guard doesn't talk. He just chomps on chewing gum.

Co

"The harvest clinic," echoes Co

"Well, let's just say you're leaving Happy Jack today."

Chomp, chomp, goes the other guard.

"Leaving?"

"C'mon, son, do we have to spell it out for you? You're a problem here. Too many of the other kids look up to you, and that's never a good thing at a harvest camp. So the administration decided to take care of the problem."

They advance on Co

"No! No! You can't do this."

"We can, and we are. It's our job—and whether you make it hard, or easy, it doesn't matter. Our job gets done either way."

Co

The gum-chewing guard looks more sympathetic, which means there might be a way to get through to him. Co

"What!"

"We sometimes get dibs on parts and stuff," he says. "One of the perks of the job. Anyways, all I'm saying is I can give you some peace of mind. You'll know your eyes won't go to some lowlife or nothin'."

The other guard snickers. "Piece of mind. Good one. Okay, time to go." They pull Co

He tries to imagine what it must be like for an inmate to be led to his execution. Do they fight it? Co

"Hands off me, I'll walk by myself," he orders the guards, and they instantly release him, perhaps surprised by the authority in his voice. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and strides forward. The first step is the hardest, but from that moment on he decides that he will neither run nor dawdle. He will neither quiver nor fight. He will take this last walk of his life in steady strides—and in a few weeks from now, someone, somewhere, will hold in their mind the memory that this young man, whoever he was, faced his unwinding with dignity and pride.