The shop owner who ran the used book store that had perused the stories he had recently purchased during the passing of a few dollars.

The roommate that sold it to the bookstore when he had finished reading.

And then, the original owner of whom the book loved most. The person who had seen it on a shelf and had chosen it from a stack of so many other identical copies.

Holden imagined such a thing and the thought itself felt unwelcome in his small mind. A stack of clean books that lined a shelf in a shop that smelled fresh with the freedom that each patron took for granted. That book must have felt so true in the owner’s hands as they brought it excitedly to the check-out counter before taking it for its first walk. Carefully, they drew back the cover, only enough to keep it from closing. Eventually, a thick, canyon of a wrinkle tore at the spine where the cover had been yanked to the back by an irresponsible reader. But that didn’t matter. That was the life of the book. It had been born without a crease; without a stain. And now, in the hands of a man who was bound by law to destroy it, the book was a beautiful canvas of lines, creases, tears and age spots. It was worn, but wonderful. Its unique scent, unlike any other in the world, caught in his nose and resonated there like a winter wind. The story had its own story of the hands who exchanged it and the books it shared shelves with. This was the air that Holden breathed, this euphoric bliss that swam with the stench of oily rags and greasy pipe in the driver’s seat of his work van. These were the delicate thoughts he yearned to protect when he slammed to a stop in front of Winston’s home, debating if he should drive away in fear and never ever come back.

Parked near the front door, where Holden often left his van, was a black sports car. A polished, elegant sedan that shone in the sprinkling of rain that seemed to christen it with beauty. Its twin, silver rims, like sparkling irises, shone back at him through the tousling mists, reminding him that some of the most beautiful creatures were also some of the most deadly. Holden left the idling van in drive, almost certain that he had just ruined Marion's and Winston’s lives by being overeager in handing out their address.

But couldn’t it be Moby? They could be inside right now, waiting for him to show up. Moby could have already convinced Winston that their future war against The Book would succeed. They could be laughing and smoking and drinking and reveling in plans that Holden dreamt were being written by someone, somewhere.

How cowardly would he be if he allowed his mind to believe the car was not the property of some enormous, tattooed man and he chose to drive off? Would someone see that as selfish if he chose the safer route? If he chose freedom? They could be waiting to take him away. Holden was already on the radar of the Publishing House. He thought it over for second, but it was a waste of a good second. There was no other option. If the owner of the black sedan (that continued to stare and stare and stare) had somehow gotten Winston’s address through other means, then he was already caught and his choice to retreat from the driveway would only buy him enough time for a last meal. Holden did what he thought made the most logical sense. He pulled into Winston’s driveway, parked beside the black car and got out of his van, holding the book Winston had entrusted to him with pride.

The front door was open.

The thought of turning around was strong and beginning to overtake him, but Holden wouldn’t allow it. His decision had been to go forward. So he opened the door fully and listened. From the foyer he could hear argumentative voices coming from the music room. As Holden approached the wide oak doors, he hoped that the discussion was one of men debating the history of literature and the future freedoms of its writers. Instead, he found Winston gripping his walker in one hand and poking Moby in the chest with one long, shabby finger. The skin upon it shook from the impact and unexpected exertion.

Moby saw Holden enter the room and tossed out a tree trunk of an arm as if to say, Help me out here, man.

“Winston. Please…please…” Holden pleaded, jogging over to them.

“I told this young man that there is nothing going on here. You tell him, Holden. You tell him that there is nothing going on here.”

“Winston, I invited him.”

“I know you did. But there is nothing going on here.” he repeated, his voice tired and raspy. When Moby turned to lean his nervous weight against the grand piano, Winston shot a glare of warning at Holden. They were supposed to be in agreement.

The situation could have been worse, but not by much. Moby took this opportunity to step back, actually afraid of the feisty little man, and Holden explained. “Winston, I’ve been trying to find other people that could help and I ended up getting invited to…”

“I know what you did, or at least I have an idea of what you did, and I’m not very pleased. That brute told me he was from The Free Thinkers and that’s all a man my age needs to hear. Now get out!”

“This can all be explained if you would just…”

Moby stepped forward to interrupt them with the most peculiar question. “Do you have Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman?”

Winston’s ears piqued with his interest. “No. No, young man. I don’t. What made you think I did?”

“Holden told me that you had a library here and I just…needed to know if you had that collection in your…collection. He’s my favorite poet and I was wondering if there were things…

“Missing?”

“Right. If you had a copy I’d be able to find out.”

“Well,” Winston began, in a much lighter mood, “I do not own a copy, although that would be a treat. However, while I’m not certain what edition they’re from, Marion brought me a few pages from that book.”

“That woman from the news?” Moby asked, having recognized her when he arrived.

Winston nodded and arched an eyebrow. “I suppose we could give those a look…if you’d like. Do you have a copy of The Book with you?”

“I do. Yeah.” From his jacket, Moby pulled the thinnest version of the reading device either of them had ever seen.

Winston grinned at the difference of stature between man and his Book as he said, “Well, I’m not promising anything, but we can have a look in the cellar. In fact, if you’d like, I can take you through the same explanation I gave Holden.”

Moby turned his head to the ceiling and counted the years. “He just left. There one day…gone the next. Gotta be going on twenty years now.”

Winston tipped dizzily to the right and attempted to regain his unbalanced footing before dropping into a thickly cushioned chair. Holden rushed forward but he was pushed away. “Might I ask,” Winston inquired, clearing his throat before finishing. “Is your surname Van Dinh?” Moby nodded slowly. “As in Skip Van Dinh.”

“You were part of my uncle’s group?” he mumbled, aghast. “What happened to him?”

“Young man, I was the leader of your uncle’s group. And, of his whereabouts, I only wish I knew.” Winston’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant and it frightened Holden before he understood that it was a good thing. The elderly man was nodding. Over and over, he continued to nod as the men stared back in patient curiosity. When he chose to reveal what his mind had decided, Winston’s words were crisp and lingered long in their ears. “Kismet. All of us. All of this. Your uncle was a key member of my group. A group that I believe now may have been the only surviving witnesses to the slavery we’re still facing. Then, one average day, they vanished. I’ve been on my own the rest of so many years, with the knowledge that I may be the only holder of this terrible secret.”

He nodded again and rose, without the aid of his walker. “I will take you downstairs. We will look through your Book. When the two of us are finished, the four of us are going to discuss things. Never before have I felt such a pull from fate. From God. Everything that has taken place to get us here, was supposed to happen so we could meet under these circumstances and under the leadership of someone far stronger than I.” Gingerly, the elderly man turned to Holden who listened to these enamored words with disbelief. Moby was nodding in agreement. Before Holden could dispute their opinion of him, Winston was leading Moby toward the cellar.

“Follow me, big fella.” At the stairs, Winston turned back to whisper a final message to Holden. “I was upset with you when he arrived…but then he introduced himself. Anyone who quotes Herman Melville is a friend of mine. I will add though, a heads up would have been nice.” He poked Holden with a long, stingy finger before pointing in the direction from where they had come. “Marion is waiting for you. Go say hello.”

Holden watched the unlikely duo walk away before he returned to the foyer. Marion was in the kitchen unpacking a table lined with canvas grocery bags and when she noticed him, she quickly towed her hair behind her ears and adjusted the dress that looked uncomfortable on someone like her. The dress hung from her shoulders by two delicate straps and draped flawlessly over her downy skin. Although Winston must have bought it for her, the colors were pulled from the floral Japanese tattoos that traced up her left arm and it made Marion look radiant and fresh. Her shoulder-swept hair was light and pulled off her forehead, cropping the bold, attractive features that Holden usually avoided. The reason why, he couldn’t grasp at the moment. He supposed that with nothing else to do all day in such odd confinement, Marion had decided to make herself look beautiful.

Her first words when they released their long hug were, “I’m reading Big as Life by E.L. Doctorow.” She pointed to the coffee table where the lively-covered book was resting. “Winston is taking me through the entire library, story by story. Telling me exactly what I need to read. The first ones are the ones I have to read before I die, apparently.” Marion giggled foolishly before remembering how she wanted to appear to Holden when he walked in the door. As she managed her facial expressions, Marion noticed his eyes and realized how much she had missed him. He looked older to her now. His face was drawn and exhausted. She could sense the weight he was carrying as he muscled out a smile.

“He gave me Fahrenheit 451. You have to read it, Marion. It is the most perfect book. It explains so much of how we feel, I think. In a different way, though. I mean…it’s different.” He struggled to explain his emotions behind the experience he had been having with the book, but was unable to. “When I read from paper, it’s…it’s as if I’m finally…I don’t know. It’s almost like the words on the page make me feel…”

“Free,” Marion finished. “That’s what I felt. Like, for the first time ever, the story I read was perfect, just the way it was. There was no need to change it. No one had ever changed it or found anything wrong with it. It was finished. I guess I felt that way because I knew it hadn’t been changed, but...”

“It’s like there was only one author.” The words had finally come and they were confirmed in Marion’s eyes. “Nowhere in the story did it feel like someone else picked up a pen and started writing.”

Holden listened as Marion spoke about her book and a thin smile traced along his face. The moment she noticed, Marion stopped mid-sentence, shook her head and said, “You’ve been here for almost a half hour and you still haven’t told me what happened to you. You never came back.”

“Well, I left and went home to read Fahrenheit 451,” Holden confessed, scratching his fuzzy crop of hair. “After that, it was just life as usual.”

Marion looked past Holden to the main staircase, where the cellar door beneath the steps was left open. “And that gargantuan man?”

Holden bobbed his head, still shocked by the news. “Turns out he’s related to one of Winston’s old crew.”

“Well, based on recent events, I’m hoping you’re going to clarify that whole thing,” she smirked, and pulled a case of beer from one of the bags on the table. “For now, what can I get you to drink?”

“Oh, Marion. You know exactly how to get me talking.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

019-50177

 

 

A dinner of fine food and well-aged wine often had the ability to compete with conversations around the dining room, but that proved to be the opposite for the four of them that evening. Nestled around Winston’s colonial oak dining table, they listened as Holden retraced his story from the past few days and nothing had been more startling than the words he exchanged with Martin Trust. Feathers were being ruffled and the danger of being discovered was very real. Marion could have gone without hearing the news that her diary, with all its personal details, was the key to tracking Holden down. On more than one occasion, she dropped her fork in embarrassment and it clinked loudly in the compact dining room. On the opposite end of the table, Winston couldn’t have been more excited. He drank every word with sips of wine, feeling quite certain that success was only a few decisions away.

After they ate, the four of them journeyed to the elongated back yard and eventually found themselves walking along Winston’s large deck that stretched like an arm into the lake. A small gazebo capped the end of the dock and they sat underneath it, upon moist cast-iron furniture, and opened a waterproof chest of games that hadn’t been stirred in a decade. Winston carefully removed a wooden box from the chest and lifted the lid to reveal a set of jade chess pieces. They were faultless and intricately carved in the shape of samurai warriors. He arranged them blissfully on the small table at the center.

Delicate drippings of rain fell from all sides of the gutterless gazebo and it gave them a sense of security, as if an unseen shield surrounded them. They could speak freely, without being heard. Content in the moment, Winston packed his pipe and Marion exchanged cigarettes with Moby. Holden searched his pockets for a stick of gum, but couldn’t find any. Thankfully, he had brought another bottle of wine and four glasses.

Moby lifted the thin, fabric cigarette to his mouth and lit it slowly as he looked out on the rain-puckered lake, feeling completely satisfied for the first time in years. He had been taken through a mind-altering journey in the cellar and he finally felt like he was a part of something right. Of course, the situation was helped by the fact that they were sitting in a tall gazebo that had been attached to an immense house. He was a large man in a medium-sized world and the home of Winston Pratt was right up his alley. Feeling free to say what was on his mind, Moby explained his purpose in reaching out to The Free Thinkers and how, over time, he revolutionized their recruitment system. Branding city buildings with their ornamental crest had been his idea, along with many others. They weren’t sure yet how they could use a mind like his, but were excited to have him, nevertheless.

As Winston and Marion began what could be a very long game of chess, where each move was thought out to precision, they laughed through puffs of smoke at Moby’s account of how he dressed up as an Unfortunate every day, donning the mask of delirium and the outfit of disgust in the pursuit of truth and revolution. Apparently, few people had reached the doors of the Spire through his hand stitched ribbons, but the group found his tactics quite useful. He elaborated on the type of parties Holden walked in on and described the agenda of The Free Thinkers. It was very different than his own, and yet Moby was glad to be a part of it when he had been because it brought him to Holden. The seriousness of that insight moved the conversation to the contentious when Winston sat back from the chess board and added his two cents.

“Moby, I think I can state for the others that we are glad to have you. In the sitting room, I said that we were meant to come together. I still believe that. We are meant to do something. I just don’t know what that something will be. The facts haven’t changed. As your uncle could attest today, having disappeared in our attempt to destroy the Publishing House, there isn’t much we can do. Not only do they track our every move, waiting to find someone smart enough to develop a plan and the abilities to achieve its end, but they have measures in place to protect themselves if they cannot find that person. There is much I know about the way they run their House…but that was forty years ago. The possibilities of success may have disappeared with your uncle.”

Moby adjusted his weight on the thick wooden bench and doused his drooping cigarette in the rainwater that was collecting on the ledge behind him. “Forgive me Winston, if what I’m about to say is perceived as rude,” he hummed politely, “but my perspective on this is quite different. When my uncle vanished, none of my family believed in what he had said about our minds being controlled by The Book. No one listened. No one believed. Except me. As I grew older, I sought a way to fight an injustice that everyone around me thought was a fairy tale. But I still carried the torch. I had faith in my uncle’s words because I could see the truth in his eyes. And today, as you sit here and say that success may have disappeared forty years ago, I am literally breathing in the moments of my own testimony that this struggle to find the truth was not in vain. When Holden arrived at our meeting, he was the homecoming of hope. I couldn’t sleep last night because I realized that I wasn’t the only one. I know it may not seem real to you now, Winston, but this is going to work. Because I still believe. I know there is something epic waiting for us.”

In the wake of such words, Holden and Moby launched ideas back and forth only to have Winston dismiss them easily with well-supported points. As each promising idea was upset by a simple, governmental security measure, the conversation grew heated until Marion, through Winston’s inability to play the game with focus, shocked the gazebo by removing one of his major pieces with a meager pawn.

Silence sliced like a tide against the sand and only the sounds of falling rain dancing on the lake could be heard until Marion retracted her smile and spoke, looking radiant as her surprisingly logical mind joined the discussion. “You guys are thinking too big. It was a mistake to try and dismantle the Publishing House. Really, what good can a small band of revolutionaries do? Even with the right resources, a few people cannot take down The Book. It’s just impossible. A pawn,” she chimed, holding up the jade samurai she had just dethroned, “is incapable of taking out a king. No matter how well planned the strategy, its strength fails. But a legion of pawns moving together across the board, each with their own well-placed attacks…

“With one mind,” Moby agreed. “Working in unison.”

Winston removed his glasses, took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped a tear from his eye. “My mother. I think she would have been classified as a knight. She was very well placed and very powerful. As was Conrad.”

“Yeah, but your mother only had you,” Holden mused, fixing his gaze upon the chess board. “Conrad obviously had others. Enough to get him where he needed to be. Buckingham Palace is not accessible to pawns. Problem is, and forgive the mixed-metaphor, but the guy’s solution was a Hail Mary pass. I don’t mean to knock his courage, but it was too risky. He made a big move hoping it would work, but not enough people caught the reference.”

Marion lowered Winston’s chess piece, nodding. “Holden’s right. We need to learn from the Editors of The Book and take tiny steps. Make patient, simple moves across a chess board, until we’ve won. Some of the pages I took down from the bar had only one word altered on the page. One word…added or changed or removed. Who would suspect a single word could change anything?”

Moby suppressed a snicker of understanding. “Subtlety,” he agreed, reaching across the board to snag a cigarette from Marion’s pack. “Like The Free Thinkers. Man, were they ever confused in their beliefs. And yeah, they had too many mislaid plans, but the one thing they had going for them was subtlety. We branded the buildings with nothing more than a picture and then we waited. People believed what they wanted and eventually reached out to us. We never actively recruited anyone.”

“But I don’t know if that was good either,” Holden complained, wishing he had a natural-fiber, fabric cigarette of his own to smoke. “As someone who was reaching out, I can tell you that there were flaws. There is no way you could have known how successful active recruitment would have been. None of us knew how large you were. And all I got to see was the Chicago branch.”

A smile twisted Moby’s immense jaw as the flame of Marion’s lighter licked the end of his cigarette. “I knew I’d have to tell you this at some point. Usually we have more people at those meetings, very important people, but really…there aren’t any other branches.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Holden snapped, now fully disappointed with The Free Thinkers. “That was everyone? Serious? What bull!”

“No, that’s amazing,” Winston beamed. “By the way they were vilified in the paper, I thought there were thousands of them across the country. I mean, this is not a bad way to go about things.” He abandoned their game and began shuffling pieces around the board, his frail fingers moving steadily like so many motorized bones. “If we’re going to do this right, it will take dedication and careful decision making. And we can’t do it without some rooks. Some bishops…maybe even a queen some day.”

“We’ll need to judge our opponent’s moves and have a counter attack ready before they make them.”

“Good point, Marion,” Winston agreed, suddenly somber. As he continued, his attitude shifted and his words were slow and precisely spoken. “Yes, this is a good idea. The first one I think I could actually stand behind. But there are two very hard truths you need to hear. The first is that if this works, and it may work, I guarantee you it will not happen during my lifetime. You need to accept that it may not even happen during your own. More importantly, and this is the more difficult fact to accept…but the game cannot be effective and we cannot win if we aren’t willing to make sacrifices.”

At those words, a chilling wind rustled through the gazebo, lifting the board a few centimeters and tousling the smaller pieces to their knees. “This fight is very real and there will be a point when hard decisions will need to be made. We will, most assuredly, lose a pawn or two in pursuit of the greater good.” Not a word was spoken as they rested on the seriousness of his words. “I so wish those moves will be made without my seeing. When victory is close. But knowing that you are all so dedicated to the fight, it gives me hope that one day we could win. There are so many layers to this and our government’s operation is so much bigger than any one of us could imagine, but I am excited. This is the most active my brain has been in years.”

He laughed and puffed from his pipe before adjusting his bowtie as an act of resetting his composure. “You three can count on me to do everything in my power to support this. This home is no longer mine. This is our home. And all the resources I have. My books are our books. And they belong to other people too. Those people don’t know it yet, but they’re going to be part of our group. Like Moby before he met you, Holden. If we are going to make our group larger, we have to be slow and we need to reach out to those we trust. Truly and deeply trust. I cannot stress that point enough.

“From there, they will have others that they can trust. And so on, until such a time that we can begin developing a plan of attack. Some of our best moves, when I was working with your uncle,” Winston paused, paying respect in a twinkle of silence, “were made when we could all come together and have many minds focusing on the same singular task. I tell you, there are more ideas out there that the four of us could never imagine and we need to find those minds. If we are steadfast, forthright with one another and focused, I believe we may actually have a shot. I am a tired man, and my voice is growing stale in my old age, but together we will strike fear into the hearts of the Publishing House with a voice that has never been heard. A voice that will ring and last the ages.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

020-52409

 

 

Each of them left the gazebo that night with a plan of who they were going to reach. Moby couldn’t wait to contact a husband and wife from The Free Thinkers. They were the only two who showed any interest in what he said about The Book and he trusted them fully. Like Holden, they found little in much of what was said during those meetings and had stopped attending a few months back. Moby was certain that they would give themselves freely to the cause.

Winston planned to reach out to the antique dealer Holden had had an altercation with in search of his favorite book. From the man’s reaction to Holden’s persistence, and with the illusive back room he seemed anxious to keep secret, Winston was positive that the man had books and knew exactly what he needed to say to reach him.

For her own safety and for the safety of the group, Marion would not attempt to reach anyone by phone or mail or anything that could track the government back to Winston’s home. Her family, and those of her friends she trusted, could not get involved on any level. She had to remain neutral in this stage no matter how hard it would be. Instead, Marion devoted herself to Holden.

As Winston brought Moby to his car, she urged Holden to follow her to the room she called home. It was on the opposite side of the house and had been one of the more spacious of Winston’s guest rooms. Holden didn’t know what to expect with her eagerness to lead him there. He assumed she wanted to be alone. To talk about her feelings, whatever those may be, and he couldn’t help but adore her for it. In the face of such defeating adversity, Marion was still thinking of her heart.

Holden missed the mark on her motives, but not by much. Marion had an uncanny ability to anticipate, to the letter, the actions of others and she saw a profound struggle brewing in Holden. She truly viewed him as their leader and could see all the heartache and pain he would be forced to witness by having that role thrust upon him. When she led him by the arm to her bedroom, and eventually to the comfortable chair by the window, she had a very specific gift in mind to give him. Marion walked to the antique vanity, sat at the low-backed seat and opened one of the thin, rectangular drawers that lined its face. It glided forward with a smooth drag. Marion removed a single, small item, closed the drawer and walked back to sit on the floor in front of Holden.

“I know who you trust more than anyone. And I know it’s going to be hard to reach out to him,” she said, gazing tenderly into his eyes. “I thought you might need something to remind you of what we talked about tonight.”

Gently, she reached for Holden’s hand and took his pointer finger in her own. In her other hand, she lifted the item she had removed from the vanity drawer and brought it to his finger. With a single, quick snip, Marion clipped his sharpened fingernail. The one he, and so many others, used to navigate the unruly seas of The Book. She kissed the bridge of his knuckles and sat back, eyes moist. And, with a soft whisper, Marion gripped his hand and immersed herself in his eyes. “Don’t forget, Holden. Don’t forget what you’re fighting for.”

He looked down at his nail, its ridge dirty but smooth, and accepted his fate for the first time. “I won’t.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

021-53020

 

 

The opportunity for Holden to reach out to the one person in the world he trusted more than any other arose nearly a week after their decision to start a grass roots movement. The reason it had taken so long was because his best friend had still been avoiding him. Shane Dagget was as good as invisible. He came in to work early. He left late. And with seniority over Holden, if Numbskull had given him the option, Shane always chose to work with someone else. But when four of them were assigned at random to install a full system on a new high-rise in the loop, the moment Holden had been waiting for presented itself. There was nowhere that Shane could run.

The majority of the rain-drenched day was spent on a concrete slab thirty stories in the air. The men of General Fire were stationed near the open, glassless windows and were forced to work under a constant swath of moist air. They slaved in silence. Holden spent each of those grueling hours deciding what he would say to Shane the moment he could get him alone. On occasion, Shane noticed his friend making eye contact and continued to look away, almost consciously keeping thirty feet of empty space between them at all times. For Holden, under the weight of four lengthy, iron pipes, struggling each minute to remain steady on a fourteen-foot ladder, the more confusing pieces started falling into place. There was only one reason he could come up with for why his friend would be acting that way - he had seen the book.

Holden was sure of it. At some point during the night, Shane had opened the duffle bag and seen the illegal, printed book among his things. It was the only explanation.

This reaction wasn’t new. In fact, it was one of Shane’s classic maneuvers. He was in Protection Mode. He focused solely on his work and nothing more. He had probably even stopped following the Blackhawks. When tragedy struck his life, Shane tended to shut down. It wasn’t that he had been depressed or overwrought with grief; it was simply because Shane didn’t have the capacity to figure out what to do next.

Nothing new. It always took Shane longer to figure things out. Twice as long as it took Holden. As teenagers, when they would start a feral, fist-flinging, rolling in the yard argument, Holden would be over it by the end of the day. It took Shane weeks to work through all his emotions. He wasn’t trying to find the last word to set Holden straight and hadn’t even been angry. It was just that his mind was a funnel and it took a while for any issue to circle its way through to the bottom where the drain could allow it a chance to escape. The distance and the disregard made sense. Shane had seen the book and he was contemplating what to do about it.

With this as a real possibility, Holden gained more confidence. When they broke for lunch, he made a move. As Shane passed the group, Holden grabbed him by the arm and whispered, “Stay behind. We have to talk.” Shane yanked himself away, but Holden could sense that he wouldn’t go far. Once their fellow pipe fitters left the cold slab of concrete and had taken the elevator down, the two of them were alone and Shane instantly drew his shoulders back. A moment later he raised his arms in defense.

“Where did that book come from?” he blurted, curling his lips. “I looked it up. It doesn’t exist.”

“Uhm…”

Holden didn’t know what to say. He was expecting to be in control of the conversation and had already been forced to take a knee. Rather than complain about the fact that he could have faced jail time by having an unrecycled book in his possession, Shane’s curiosity about the book threw Holden off his game.

“It doesn’t exist anywhere. This guy…Ray Bradbury…he’s written some other things but nothing called Fahrenheit 451. What are you involved with, man?” he asked, fuming as he paced the unfinished room. When Holden didn’t respond, he stepped closer.

Expecting Shane to start sweeping his fists, he responded, “I got that book from a friend, okay?”

“From Marion? Are you hiding her out, bro? She’s wanted. And not even by the police. By like…big people. And I stuck my neck out on the line for you without realizing what was in that bag. I’m not stupid, Holden. I know what you’re going to try to do and I’m not getting involved. If one freakin’ word comes out where I think you’re gonna try and get me involved…I will throw you over the side of this building. Do not involve me. I mean it!”

It was finally clear. Holden realized the truth in that last twist of phrase and was surprised that he hadn’t figured it out earlier. Shane was not playing offense. He was playing defense. Holden tried to stop the smile that arched at the corner of his mouth as he said the words, but couldn’t help himself.

“You read it. Didn’t you…?” Shane looked away. “You read the book.”

“Yeah, so what. I read the whole dang thing. Doesn’t matter. I was just curious. I’ve never even seen a book before and I needed to know why my best friend would risk his life to keep it. And then…I saw that the guy was a firefighter. You know how much I wanted to be a fire fighter. But it was messed up, bro. Burnin’ books. People dying.” Shane stopped to regain his frustration. It was Holden’s fault that he felt whatever it was that he felt, and he needed to point his anger back at the one responsible. “Are you and Marion involved in some anarchist thing now, bro?”

“That’s kind of a big question and…there’s a big answer for it,” Holden admitted, since what they were starting would be considered anarchy.

“None of that matters. Why you gotta rock the boat, man? Everything we did and all the things we planned for our lives…you wrecked it. You changed. You’re not the same guy. And…I just….”

Shane released a visceral howl and it shook a tremendous guilt through Holden. His friend was right. He had changed. He wasn’t the same person. And he never would be again. Shane looked so dramatically dismayed, pacing near the horizontal strip of open sky and Holden could size him up in a second. Shane was mourning the loss of his best friend. Yes, he had been affected by what he read in Fahrenheit 451, likely more than Holden realized, but the main reason Shane had been so upset was because he knew that their friendship would never get back to the way it used to be.

There was a history there. Both of them had lost their parents before they could legally drink the sorrow away and once the funeral march ended, Shane was left with no one. His older brother moved away. His sister got married and moved away. The only person Shane could count on was Holden, his best friend from across the street. It had been that way ever since. And now, there was a battle raging inside him that could go either way. Shane would join the group in an instant, regardless of what they believed, if it meant that he could reunite with his best friend. But the other side of him was putting up a fight. He didn’t like feeling such emotions. They scared him because they made Shane realize how much their relationship meant to him. He would give up any of his freedoms to keep it safe or to regain something it once resembled.

When he was finished pacing, Shane spoke with forced satisfaction. “I’m going to lunch, Holden. And I’m done talking about this. Maybe done talking to you. That’s if you’re even around tomorrow.”

“Dagget,” Holden argued, feeling his friend slip away. “Wait. We’ve seen each other through everything, man. Can’t you trust me on this? Will you at least give me a chance to...”

Shane was already in Holden’s face, gripping his shirt and whispering ferociously, “Don’t think for an instant that I won’t turn you in if they ask me! ‘Cause guess what brother, Shane Dagget fixes himself first!”

Shane shoved himself away and, at those words, walked past the elevator and down the railingless concrete cube that held a multitude of diamond-plated emergency stairs. With each echoing reverberation, Holden felt their friendship, the closest relationship in his life, crumbling to nothing. He wanted to holler out to Shane. He even pulled out his phone to call him in a last desperate attempt to get him back, but it didn’t work. He heard Shane’s phone rattling near a pile of black pipe that was waiting to be fastened to the ceiling. He’d left it at the job site on purpose.

Rather than leave a message, Holden picked up his best friend’s phone and typed Winston’s address onto the screen before closing it and leaving work early. He didn’t care about the consequences. Moby and Winston were so excited to bring new people in and Holden dreamed of Shane standing beside him, sharing his passion for the freedoms of future generations. But they were different people. A limiting fact he had been forced to realize so many times before. No matter how well they got along, they saw the world through different eyes. Holden was powerless. No matter what logic he could develop to convince people of the truth, he could never force people to care about The Book.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

022-54640

 

 

Weeks passed in the life of Holden Clifford like the trailing emissions of a classic, American-made automobile. The earth was still polluted and everything was accelerating. The three of them had reached out to those they wanted to bring into the fold and although Holden had been unsuccessful, the same could not be said of the other two. The husband and wife Moby had recruited, the former members of The Free Thinkers, were so eager to join that they began dropping by Winston’s on a regular basis. Their names were Jeff and Abby Johnson and they were a much needed ingredient.

Marion was relieved to have another woman at the house and Winston found Jeff to be a better match for him intellectually. The conversations they struck under the rain-soaked gazebo gave peace to the others because they noticed a positive shift in the wise man’s demeanor. As he had done before, Winston brought them separately to the cellar, removed the chip from the back of their Book and walked them through eighteen minutes of their favorite stories. After which, he brought them to the sitting room where they clipped their fingernail and listened to the sacrifices Dennis Wayne Conrad, Winston’s mother, Moby’s uncle and the rest of his former group had made. Winston felt that reliving these stories was a crucial element of inducting new members into their group. People needed to know the road they were on and how it could diverge to another. They needed to understand the risks and to accept them.

Each time Winston told these tragic stories, he became more comfortable as a storyteller, which seemed to bring the group unexpected warmth. Storytelling quickly became the way they relaxed. The moment that Abby discovered her favorite story along the shelves in the cellar, Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, Winston encouraged her to read it aloud to everyone during the course of a few quiet, but damp, evenings. The consensus between each of their favorite lines rested on something Abby read in the final chapter.

 

 

Wanting to be around in case Jeff and Abby stopped by, Moby had started coming to the house early every day and leaving well into the night. So often, in fact, that Winston suggested he move into one of the many spare bedrooms. Although Moby tried to protest, Winston found a room that was large enough for such a giant and, within days, the former Unfortunate sold his condo, all his belongings and took up permanent residence on the estate. This was also nice for Marion because she was no longer the only one responsible for keeping an eye on Winston. While she cherished spending all her time with the elderly man, a little relief pitching went a long way.

With each passing, cloud-enclosed day, Holden grew more embarrassed that he had been unable to succeed with Shane. He considered who else he trusted and could reach out to, but his ex-wife was the only one to make the list. It didn’t take him long to decide against that option. Eve was more than temperamental and had an ability to lose her hearing whenever she was around her ex-husband. It was a hard pill to swallow, but Holden knew that if their group was to become a success, he’d need to get beyond whatever had been keeping him from reaching out.

On his own, Winston had done a superb job. After a week and a half of meeting as a six-person group, the thin, bearded man with the bright red t-shirt who had launched Holden with ease to the back room of his antique shop, arrived at Winston’s door, serene and eager to pass along his sensible, surprisingly academic expertise to the other six. The home-made necklaces that festooned the man’s wrinkled throat held their attention as they listened to his opinion of how the world of science had been distorted since the origination of the Publishing House. The antique dealer was aware of the general alteration in novels, but was unaware of the connection between Conrad and the Prince and he allowed Winston the opportunity to take him through the entrance ritual.

With earnest, Winston brought him down to the cellar and, after eighteen minutes, they shared a meal in private. The following day, the man returned with five plastic bins filled to the lid with fifty-seven books that he had been hording for most of his life. Special books he vowed never to sell. Stacked precariously on each of these were smaller containers overflowing with half-torn stories he had discovered behind the drawers of antique dressers and single pages that he had found lining the insides of ruined suitcases. Winston and the antique dealer, Ephraim Wheeler, were like two giddy gardeners among a patch of ideas and they spent hours in the cellar getting their hands dirty discussing books and reveling in one another’s collections. Along with his wife Lolita and young son Ronnie, Ephraim moved from their apartment and into one of Winston’s dual-suite bedrooms. It was an adjustment for sure, but to have a rascally eight-year-old scurrying around and creating havoc was an unforeseen breath of fresh air. It had been ages since Winston’s house had been full and he was thrilled to watch life running through the halls. His sanctuary of thoughts and paper was a home again.

Storage was an issue that they could see coming from far off, so Moby took it upon himself to begin rummaging through the contents of Winston’s garage. In the process, he discovered the bin of items Winston’s mother had stored since leaving the Publishing House. Inside were three wide screens carrying the recycling icon of The Book and a framed metal sign with dark green text. The sign read:

 

Editors found with written material

or records of editing will be recycled.

 

When Moby brought this to Winston, a laugh escaped his lined lips. The three screens were digital log books that his mother had kept and recorded in while working for the Publishing House. Each day she had come home from work, they spent an hour typing out exactly what she had edited, added or deleted. The sign was something she had stolen as a joke that was both ironic, because the records were in her head, and foreboding, because it reminded her each day what awaited those who were caught keeping track. As a group of eight, they decided that the digital records were just as important as the original texts themselves because they could be used to convince others of the truth if a specific edition was missing from their underground library.

While the group may have been growing, its leader was still having difficulty accepting the dynamic. One un-sunny afternoon, Holden dropped in after work to find Marion waiting to ask him if he would start spending the night. He insisted he couldn’t and blamed it on an early start in the morning, but she wasn’t buying it. Marion channeled her disappointment by pressing him on his necessity to continue working when they needed him at the house. So much was going on while he was straddling joists and crawling through truss work and the group was desperate for his opinion. Holden tried to explain himself, but what Marion didn’t understand was that during such synchronized turmoil, he needed part of his life to keep its rituals. He knew it made sense to move from his minty-fresh (home again, home again) house, based on mileage alone, but in the end, Holden felt that he was merely unable to release the part of his day that was most secure.

There were a lot of reasons beyond his need for stability. Although the group considered him to be their leader, part of Holden still wanted to be the minion for someone else’s group, while the other part was unable to fully trust the group he had started himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the group; it was that he found himself frightened by the stories Winston would tell about Moby’s uncle and their friends and how they had all simply vanished one day. Winston’s group had always met at the same place. They planned the plan and went through the motions without a worry. A week away from delivering a swift kick to the pants of the Publishing House, Winston had chosen to bring food to their meeting and ended up arriving to “base camp” a little late. Luckily late. Whatever had happened, everyone in his group had been taken, including Moby’s uncle. Winston had been spared purely by the fact that his stomach was rumbling. Whoever spilled the beans didn’t wait around for him to show up. It was hard for the man to go on living after that, knowing that his friends had disappeared from the group he started and had led into the ground. But with their progress and passion, he seemed to be healing. Whereas Holden was fast becoming less confident. He couldn’t stop picturing the scene of Winston walking in to find everyone he cared about and trusted gone. It made him realize that he never wanted to be one of the gone. He wanted to be the one walking through the door. Visiting. Moving into Winston’s home was choosing a side that he wasn’t ready yet to accept. That would change over time, as his courage grew, he knew that it would, but it was still early and things were moving quickly and Holden didn’t like when things moved quickly.

Another un-sunny afternoon, Holden made it back to Winston’s house to find the seven other members of their group in a heated discussion over an item Moby had been working on secretively in the garage. When they noticed Holden’s arrival, they allowed Moby a chance to showcase his newfangled mechanism. They watched with pride as Holden approached the kitchen table where they had been circled and enjoyed the look on his face as he noticed that his very large and clever friend had created another branding machine.

Its body was small and made of tough, blackened steel. It was attached to a nylon harness system that was teeming with wires and switches. On the rectangular branding surface were a series of sharp metal letters, carved backwards and spelling four words:

 

Don’t Read The Book.

 

Moby spoke before Holden could have the chance.

“The branding machine I built for The Free Thinkers was difficult to transport and we were constantly forced to strike at night, so no one would see. This machine is light. It has a handheld, portable design and all the mechanics are hidden in the shoulder straps. Obviously, I’ll clean it up. Pretty nice, huh? We don’t have to be as cautious. I can brand a building in the middle of a crowd.”

All Holden could do was smile as he listened to the group chatter on about how smart it was to start branding buildings themselves. It made sense. If the eight of them wouldn’t be able to gather new members they could trust, at least people would start questioning what they read in The Book. Moby explained his plans to add imagery or a specific quote from one of their favorite books, but they thought better of it. Don’t Read The Book was more than enough to get people to start talking and Holden could attest to the fact that, at the very least, the workmen having to remove the brand would take notice.

From outward appearances, it seemed that their group was doing well, but Holden knew, as he watched Moby, upon Winston’s suggestion, branding their phrase into the thick stone of the fireplace to tumultuous applause, that they were just a bunch of dreamers. Readers with imaginations so entertained by the idea of revolution that they were dumb enough to think success was possible. Nearly all of their time was spent working toward a future that only their children would see. A dream that even little, rambunctious Ronnie could outlive.

Marion was the only one who could see the skepticism behind Holden’s enthusiasm because as each of them stared at the smoking stone and the angled blackened words, her eyes were on him. She knew the struggle within Holden and could see it on his wrinkled brow, but she kept it to herself and chose instead to offer him a simple smile when their eyes would meet.

The next week passed and the sun was still missing. Sure, it was beginning to get on their nerves, but the group rationalized it as a healthy thing. The lack of sunshine, open flowers and tweeting birdies reminded them that they were living in storm season. Even Mother Nature, that supercilious skirt, wasn’t about to pretend that things were going the way she had planned. And it was on one of the more thunderous of days, when Holden had felt the most uncertain of himself as their leader, that Shane showed up at the door.

In the great room, Holden had been reading a children’s story to Ronnie entitled Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by a man named Lewis Carroll. He stood atop a wide, leather ottoman to add a sense of magnitude to the task and attempted to capture the essence of the wildly odd, but enjoyable tale. He read the story with silly voices and Ronnie’s attention was latched from the overstuffed couch while Marion looked on from the window seat.

“‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’ Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. ‘What sort of people live around here?’ ‘In that direction,’ the Cat said, waiving its right paw round, ‘lives a Hatter; and in that direction,’ waving the other paw, ‘lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they’re both mad.’ ‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked. ‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat. ‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad,’” Holden paused as he heard a knock at the door. Winston left the kitchen to answer it and Marion scurried away from the windows. There was no telling who was at the door, why they had come and if they would recognize Marion from the news. This was the first time any of them had had a guest arrive unannounced and they had to be cautious and assess the risk before reacting. Ronnie squirmed in his seat, so Holden finished the paragraph with a watchful eye on the foyer. “‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice. ‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or else you wouldn’t have come here.’”

Holden closed the book and stumbled off the ottoman, blinking his eyes like the rapid wings of a butterfly in unspeakable disbelief. Dragging his feet skittishly across the marble tiles of the foyer was his best friend. Shane didn’t turn or give attention to anyone in the house. He simply followed Winston toward the cellar door.

Marion turned to Holden, her lips pressed together in a smile of unreserved joy. Holden handed the book on to Ronnie with care and soon found himself jogging to the foyer. At the cellar door Shane turned to glance back at him before heading down the stairs.

The flurry of emotion hurricaned Holden as he skipped excitedly to the door where Winston threw out a hand to stop him. He peaked blissfully around the frame, without restraint, to watch as his best friend was introduced to the smells and sights below. Winston tugged intensely on Holden’s shirt and he turned to discover that he was not about to be included.

“Holden, your friend needs to do this alone.”

“But I can…”

“This one is for me.” Winston’s eyes were sharp and prickled and they told Holden to let it go. So he did. Out of respect. Begrudgingly.

Holden walked backward toward the foyer and watched the cellar door close. He stood there for three minutes before joining Marion in the sitting room where they sat beside one another on the piano bench and listened for the door to open again. The whole time, Holden stared at the floorboards as if studying the life lines that were drawn across their polished surface. Marion stared instead at Holden, her eyes warm and affectionate. She wanted to grip his hand and tell him to be patient; to remind him that Shane had taken the difficult first step; to encourage him. Instead, she kept her hands in her lap and they remained as silent as silence would allow.

Fifteen minutes had passed. Then the big eighteen. And then thirty.

Forty-eight minutes after the cellar door closed, it opened again. Holden sat up from the piano bench, but didn’t rise; Marion had stood for him. She took a handful of tentative steps toward the hallway before they heard Shane draw a slight cough and approach the foyer. They held their breath as they saw him walk steadily to the front door. Before he reached for the tarnished handle, he tilted his head toward the sitting room and paused, bringing one hundred unanswered questions to Holden’s lips. But he continued sitting and he continued staring. After Shane was gone, and the rest of the house started asking who the man was, Holden launched himself from the piano bench to watch his friend’s truck as it backed into the street below the constant oppression of clouds. Marion was there to offer him a comforting glance, but Holden ignored her and marched angrily to the cellar, where he found Winston holding a book by Virginia Wolf called The Waves. He dismissed its interesting cover art, stopped speculating on how the book could have related to his best friend and started to berate the elderly man who was shelving it prudently away.

“I’m his best friend. I’m the only person he has in this horrible world. I should have been involved in this! If you wanted me to stay quiet, you could have at least given me the courtesy of watching him go through this. He’s the most important person in the world to me. You didn’t even give me the chance, man! I know this is your house and I want to respect you, but you aren’t my father. You aren’t my boss. You’re not even the leader of this group!” Winston adjusted his dainty glasses and turned toward Holden, giving him the respect to finish. “Who knows, bro. You might have said something wrong down here. Someone like you could never understand Shane. You probably just screwed this whole thing up.”

“That’s possible, Holden. Your friend discovered more than one deplorable thing in this cellar. He may never come back, it’s true.” Winston removed his handkerchief to wipe the bead of fretful sweat from his delicate hair line before continuing. “But that is his choice. And he will make his own decision, just like the rest of us. The one thing our group is trying to preserve is our ability to choose to read what we want and then choose if we agree with it or not, without being told that we should. Out of anything here, that fact should be the most important to you.”

“You don’t get what I’m saying. I understand that you want to do this…ceremony with everyone. I get it. Take them down here go through your whole spiel like you did with me. But it was wrong of you to cut me out of this, Winston. I don’t care what you think he needed to hear. Shane is a different type of guy than you…and I could have at least interpreted things. Worded things differently, so he would understand.”

“Holden. I will only speak one more time and then we are through talking about this. Agreed?” He waited for Holden to nod before finding a comfortable place to sit within the dim reading nook. “You don’t give Shane enough credit. He is stronger than you think. But where he may be lacking in wisdom, he makes up for in his passion and dedication to you. To your friendship. What a heart your friend has. You say you know him better than I do, and that is irrefutable, but if you knew him as well as you say you do, you wouldn’t be upset with me right now. You would know that Shane needed to figure this out on his own. And that he would need to hear the truth from someone that wasn’t you.”

Winston’s words were an arrow in Holden’s chest. He was right. What Holden thought didn’t matter. Shane was what mattered and Holden was acting like a child that couldn’t share. He wanted to control the fate of his best friend, when that was a lesson each of them had already learned. Maybe the most important lesson thus far. Their fates rested in their own hands.

All he could do was hope that Shane’s fate would bring him back.

And soon.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

023-58217

 

 

The small band of bibliophiles had made some interesting headway. It took three weeks, but once Moby had finished building a series of branding machines, the group separated in order to enact a multi-pronged assault on the Publishing House. They divided into three teams: Moby and Holden, Jeff and Abby, and Ephraim and Lolita. In the name of truth, they left Marion home with Winston and Ronnie and traveled to three major areas of the United States.

Moby and Holden were gone for the longest. They spent a week in New York where they branded the rooftop deck of the Empire State Building, a flashing, led-coated building in Times Square, the wall of a popular subway station, the side of a ritzy, East End condominium and, Holden’s favorite of all the locations, the oversized sculpture in Central Park which displayed characters from the book Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Along with a few other random locations, they thought this diversified their paraphernalia across the city. They only hoped during the tight, flight home (human whales weren’t the best travel-pals) that the other groups had been able to inflict as much truth-laden damage.

Jeff and Abby were perfectly successful in Los Angeles and Las Vegas while Ephraim and his wife hit Dallas with an all-night desecration tour one day and then stopped in Miami the next day for round two. It was a courageous move, they knew, but each of them realized that hitting different states on the same weekend would leave open the speculation to their numbers and they wanted people to start talking. Who would believe that the word could get out in such a way with only eight people responsible?

Winston, needing to be on the front lines in some capacity, chose to brand one of the south side elevated train stations, to keep the brand away from home, and then topped the weekend off by hitting the Sears Tower a few feet from the emblem of The Free Thinkers. Alone, among so many people younger than him, the adventure downtown was the highlight of the decade for Winston. And although they didn’t want to come right out and associate themselves with The Free Thinkers, Winston thought that, in terms of publicity, it was a good move. And he was right.

When Holden and Moby returned, carrying the names of seven people Moby had met while impersonating an Unfortunate, they watched the news broadcasts as the government attempted to cover up the story of The Book by claiming that similar phrases had been stamped in other cities, including Read The Book and Your Mom Reads The Book.

It only made them laugh. Nothing the Publishing House could do to stop the word from spreading mattered. People were talking and it was smart to branch themselves out – which had been Jeff’s idea. He determined that the outbreak of brands across the country during the same weekend helped them in two distinct ways: it brought a higher sense of pandemonium to those who wanted to protect the secret and it provided protection to the true location of their group. If their branding campaign was limited to the Chicagoland area, it would only be a matter of time before they were pinned down. Now, with questions out there on where the hub could be located, Moby could continue recruiting safely downtown.

After witnessing this good news, and hearing about everyone’s separate adventures, Holden and Moby were on such a high that they began developing a plan to brand the famous, stainless steel bean sculpture that perched itself, ever watchful of the city, on the crest of Millennium Park. As a hotspot for Unfortunates, they agreed that it should happen soon.

And there had been more good news. In their absence, Marion, still embarrassed that she hadn’t taken more pages from the bar, had followed up on one of Lolita’s ideas to start generating a list of where more books could be found. Lolita and Ephraim believed that the library would eventually grow even larger and started work on a card catalog, made of leaves and bark (Ronnie called it God’s Paper). The argument was posed that the most important thing they could do for the cause was build their collection. Lolita suggested that they should find a wall somewhere in the house where they could keep a list. That way it could be visible at all times and would remain on the forefront of their strategy. So Marion brought it upon herself, with Winston’s permission, to use the ladder Moby found in the garage to write the first three ideas they had drafted near the rafters of the high-ceilinged great room. The text, made of home-made ink, was large enough that they could see it from the couch and small enough that they could spend years writing and still leave room on the wall. It was a marvel to look upon and each of them felt that Winston’s home was quickly becoming the epicenter of all things free speech.

The most surprising news had been that, while Holden was in New York, Shane had been back to the house multiple times. From what Marion had seen, he would come by, sit with Winston for a while, take a book and leave. On other days, she would wake up to hear him banging away in the cellar, building better shelving. Next day, she would be out for a walk and find him hacking away in the old servant quarters, remodeling the space for some future, yet-to-be-known, tenants. It was odd, but it was his way of helping. His way of being a part of the team, without having to acknowledge Holden, just yet. There was quite a bit Shane needed to work through on his own and Holden would give him the space. It was typical, small life thinking, but sometimes swinging a hammer was the best way for a man to sort through his difficulties.

Holden knew there was a much longer road for Shane than the one he was traveling. And while he was impatient for that road to come near his own, he was forced to remind himself again that they were different people and that they may never come to the same place at the same time. But still, a great weight was lifted from his rejection-fraught shoulders. Shane knew the truth. He believed what Winston told him and he would be a part of their group, on his own terms.

Witnessing even a slight amount of success, Holden decided he could take on the world. It was time to talk to his ex-wife.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

024-59322

 

 

Holden stood in the slick driveway that used to be his, debating if the house his wife was trying to steal, the one he was staring at, could still, on some technical level, be called his home; taking into account that the property was still in his name, most of the furniture (the good stuff he hadn’t been allowed to take) was his and it was where his only offspring prayed her bedtime prayers and drifted off to delicate dreams. Spotting the curling, floral fabric that laced the front window, he made the distinction; flat screen placement or no, that house was no longer his.

But he was far from upset. In fact, Holden could have left his van downtown that afternoon because he was flying through the murky clouds on a natural high. That afternoon Moby allowed him to brand the bean.

The plan was easy. They needed to attack the park around midday, when it was bustling with tourists and lunch breakers. Even with the lurking Unfortunates, too many people still needed a photograph on their cell phone of their best friend in front of the bean’s polished, steel bosom. People provided cover and cover provided a safe escape. After meeting up with his partner in crime, Moby Van Dinh, the tattooed whale who was now a dear friend, Holden strapped into the makeshift branding suit under the solitude of the pavilion bathrooms during a quiet, afternoon concert in the park. It was a quick process, especially after having worn it so often in New York, but Holden took his time. Branding the bean was an experience he wanted to cherish.

The machinery hung loose on his shoulders, like the holsters of a six-shooter from a time only movies could tell. It was light weight, but awkward. The bulk of the mechanics were hidden beneath his clothes, slung precariously over both kidneys, and the arrangement of wires that coursed up his shoulder and down his long sleeve shirt gave him a tickle that he needed to resist. The time for accidental giggles ended the moment he slipped the fingerless glove over his right hand. The branding iron, with the imprint of Don’t Read The Book, was stitched into the fabric and it clasped itself easily to the inside of his palm. It was the smartest and most prudent way to exist in an unbranded world one second and a branded world the next.

After gearing up, they took their time perusing the park before mingling with the other tourists toward the bean. Moby was a hard one to miss, so he did his best to crouch whenever possible. Once beneath the silvery surface, Holden switched the power on from a button they had clipped to his belt loop. The charge had begun. Holden could feel a thrilling, electrified warmth in his palm as they carefully chose the perfect location. The spot that would forever be stained with their motto. Once they agreed with a discreet nod, Holden leaned into the cold steel and pressed his palm to its shell.

Hearing a gentle twang of anger as the molecules of the famous sculpture were forever altered was exhilarating. Holden switched the power off immediately before pressing a secondary button to activate the cooling system. As their plan suggested, Moby lifted an old digital camera and nudged his leader to a stereotypical tourist spot beside the now-blemished skin of the bean. With a ridiculous grin, Holden posed and Moby took a photograph like any other, average, run-of-the-mill, three-hundred pound sightseer.

They were gone before the flash faded from the sunless sky. Halfway down the steps, surrounded by flowers and excited patrons, over the din of delicate orchestrations that streamed from the band shell beyond, they could hear someone crying out that they had discovered another brand. The men reached the sidewalk hearing people shouting, “Don’t Read The Book!”

The delicate trills of that music still resonated in Holden’s mind as he strolled confidently to his ex-wife’s door and knocked with a triumphant surety. As he waited, imagining how awkward their conversation would be, he realized that he was still wearing the glove. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to remove the branding machine. Spotting her shadow on the glass, he decided that he would have to play it cooler than he had planned.

Eve came to the door amid a tumult of raspy barking. She had gotten a dog. New things do happen, he supposed. As she silenced the animal, Holden could see her face through the window and he felt a surprising blend of unexpected memories and emotion.

She didn’t look beautiful today. Probably because she was at home, alone. Beauty wasn’t what satisfied him. In the moments before she recognized who was at the door, before her usual annoyance contorted her casual features to an attitude of disgust and irritation, Eve’s face was warm and relaxed. It reminded him of the good times they shared when they were young – before bills and car problems and doctors and daughters. He missed that Eve. The one that loved him and wanted to be loved by him. But it changed. Of course it did. The new Eve came back when she saw that Holden was the one who had come knocking. And in that moment, holding one of the three log books that contained years of editing notes from the Publishing House, Holden nurtured a single hope: that his ex-wife would allow him into the house.

Gripping back the dog, Eve opened the front door without unlocking the screen. “What do you want, Holden?” she barked through the glass.

He laughed in surprise. “Uh…to see you. To see my daughter. Can you let me in, Eve?”

His reaction was a lie. He expected this. Actually, Holden expected worse. He had been more than distant lately, nearly unreachable for weeks. Eve had left him numerous messages, threatening to file for custody, and he never called her back. He wanted to, but he didn’t really know what to say. When she unlocked the screen door and returned to wherever she had come from, apparently telling him it was alright to come on in, he released a yawn of relief.

Home again, home again.

Jiggety Jig.

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” he said sarcastically, entering the place that he had once called home.

Standing in the entry way, he couldn’t stop scratching the back of his head. The place looked great. It was clean and organized. The furniture that he had gotten from his cousin’s condo actually looked new. Eve’s entire life seemed to be more in order since they’d split. Even with a humongous, overly-friendly dog that pawed at his pantleg, the smell and presence of freshly laid, lush, white carpeting made him look at his ex-wife differently. He even removed his shoes.

Where has this woman been my whole life? he thought, stating the long-established mantra of the divorcé.

After the dog was harnessed and he was standing alone in the living room with Eve, her jet black hair shining, her round face softer than he had ever seen it, her body trim and healthy, Holden walked slyly around the couch to search for evidence of his daughter. He normally found it in the form of shoes or tousled bags, but nothing was there.

“Where’s our daughter?”

Eve laughed. “So predictably unreliable.”

There it is, he mused.

“Jane’s on her way home, Holden. She left school less than five minutes ago. You would know that if you ever paid any attention to her. What are you coming around here for, anyway?” Her voice was thick with attitude and although he knew he deserved it, there was a part of him that was glad he didn’t have to hear such disappointment every day. “I hope you didn’t come here thinking you’re taking her for the week. I’m filing for custody. I told you that.”

“I know you did.”

“You look terrible,” she griped. “What’s happened to you?”

Holden continued to gaze around the room as if Jane hadn’t been at school. He forgot how hard it was to talk to Eve, especially when she looked at him as if he were the stupidest ape on the planet. When he glanced up to speak, he saw it on her face, plain as day. The look he hated. “Well, I was hoping to talk to both of you about this. There has been a new development in my life. It’s kind of a big deal and…uh…”

“What in all of God’s green goodness…?” Eve’s face drew back to the expression of a woman walking toward a train wreck, viewing the carnage and the rubble with revulsion. He had been expecting her usual look with pinches of disbelief, disregard and disappointment blended in and poured out through half a grin, under wrinkled eyebrows, but this was unexpected. It was at that point that Holden realized he had been speaking with cordiality and gesturing with open arms. Because he was nervous, the branding iron was exposed.

“You did that? It’s all over the news. A bunch of different buildings across the country have that stamp. You’re a part of that? You’re a terrorist? And the bean? Were you involved in that too? We took pictures there on our wedding day!”

“This…uh…I did not want it to start this way.”

The door opened. The dog erupted in excitement and Eve caught the animal mid-stride, yanking him back by the collar.

“Dad!” Jane hollered, dropping her bag and racing up to her father. He gave her the tightest hug he could without harming her and lifted his daughter into the air, being careful to guard her from the branding iron that was cupped in his hand. “Are you staying? Are you staying?” Her legs fluttered up in newfound contentment.

He nestled his nose in her cheek and kissed her. “Yeah, honey. I’m going to be here for a while, I think.”

“Jane,” Eve blurted, chewing on her tongue. “Get your stuff and go to your room. Your dad and I need to talk.”

It hadn’t been that long since her father had left and Jane knew what that voice meant. She wanted to gripe about it, but she also knew what action would follow if she didn’t listen and obey. So Jane smiled up at her father and lifted her bags from the floor. “Don’t leave without telling me, okay?”

“I won’t, sweetheart,” he said, noticing the sheer innocence in her eyes.

His daughter had grown up so fast. He wished he could slow things down and just enjoy her. He wanted to sit beside her on the couch and mumble about many unimportant things, but Eve’s discomfort reminded him of why he had come. So, with apology, he let her go. The moment Jane was out of earshot, Eve clamped her teeth down on her tongue, took three long strides up to Holden and jabbed a finger into his gut.

“What are you up to?” she growled, unfairly. “Whatever it is, don’t you dare bring it into this house. That girl trusts you. She believes in you. There is so much I would just love to tell her about who you really are, but I’m allowing her to see you as a responsible man, no matter how make-believe it is. Do not make that for nothing and do not make me regret it.”

“Eve, listen. What I’m a part of…it’s huge. What I’ve seen and realized over the past few weeks...” He reached for her hand, but she drew it back. He had forgotten about the branding iron again. He had also forgotten that divorced couples don’t hold hands. “I’ve brought this log book here to show you. You’re favorite book is still The Patchwork Girl of Oz by Baum, right?”

“What? What does that have to do with –”

“Just answer the question.”

“Sure,” she replied, adjusting her composure at the distressing reminder that he still knew so many of her most intimate secrets. Eve didn’t like realizing that, while she could erase him as much as possible from her future, he would always be a crucial piece of her past. “Of course it is, Holden.”

“Well, think back to the brand you saw on the news,” he began, on his way to the kitchen counter where he powered up the ancient log book. “What saying did we brand into the building?”

“Don’t Read The Book,” she recalled. “Makes no sense.”

“Wait, let me explain.” He spun the screen and waved her over. “This is a digital log I…got…from an Editor of The Publishing House.”

“You don’t know any Editors.”

“A lot has changed and those details don’t matter. I want to read you something, okay? Will you let me read you something?”

“Fine,” she huffed reluctantly, pulling up one of her taller stools as he struggled to navigate the log book without a sharpened fingernail.

Holden stared into Eve’s wide-arcing eyes and waited for her fullest attention. After making the decision to reach out to her, he had searched the logs for any alterations Winston’s mother had made to Eve’s favorite book. What he found was surprising.

“Here we go. ‘January fifteenth. Harold asked me to search the contents of another book by Lyman Frank Baum, THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ. Reason was more obscure than last time. Instructed to remove all references to character named Hip Hopper denoting himself as a ‘Champion’. Articles removed from pages 267 to 291, including chapter title from page 17. Red was recruited to assist in removal of the word ‘Champion’ from decorative chapter art drawn at the start of chapter 21 on page 267. Project scheduled for completion by January seventeenth. Sample recorded from personal collection. Click here for sample.’”

“Holden, what is this?”

“Let me get through a little more,” he urged, before continuing. “‘July the twenty-fourth. Returning to PATCHWORK GIRL by L. Frank Baum. Ann O. consulted on addition of green as main color in self-description provided by Patchwork Girl on line four of page 69. Sample recorded from personal collection. Click here for sample.

“‘January fifteenth. Revisiting PATCHWORK by Baum one year after initial alterations. Red recruited once more to augment illustration art from page 107. Supplement circular sketchy representations of the ground surrounding the tree beside cobbled path to resemble the vertical words NO JURISDICTION. Project schedule for completion by February the first. Original page scanned from personal collection. Click here for original.

“‘May. One too many edits to dictate. Will be concise and detail structure and purpose of augmentations versus content of THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ by L. Frank Baum. The entire setting of the story from pages…’”

Holden felt a tender hand on his knee and he glanced up from the screen of the log book to find Eve looking frightened and confused. Without a word, she urged Holden to stop.

“Just one more. It’s long, but I think it will make everything come together for you.” Eve bit her bottom lip. She pulled her hand from his knee and looked away. Holden continued. “‘August thirtieth. Sudden drastic edit of THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ by Lyman Frank Baum after six-year hiatus. Completely unexplained deletion of chapter ending between pages 198-201 as well as references to laws of fictitious world being declared as ‘Foolish’ from pages 229 and 230. Ann O. sub-contracted to generate smooth transition between words. Project scheduled for immediate action. Sample recorded from personal collection. Click here for sample.’”

Holden tapped the screen, heard the hesitation in Eve’s breathing and read the sample passage that Winston’s mother had recorded.

“‘Ojo was much astonished, for not only was this unlike any prison he had ever heard of, but he was being treated more as a guest than a criminal. There were many windows and they had no locks. There were three doors to the room and none were bolted. He cautiously opened one of the doors and found it led into a hallway. But he had no intention of trying to escape. If his jailor was willing to trust him in this way he would not betray her trust, and moreover a hot supper was being prepared for him and his prison was very pleasant and comfortable. So he took a book from the case and sat down in a big chair to look at the pictures.

This amused him until the woman came in with a large tray and spread a cloth on one of the tables. Then she arranged his supper, which proved the most varied and delicious meal Ojo had ever eaten in his life.

Tollydiggle sat near him while he ate, sewing on some fancy work she held in her lap. When he had finished she cleared the table and then read to him a story from one of the books.

‘Is this really a prison?’ he asked, when she had finished reading.

‘Indeed it is,’ she replied. ‘It is the only prison in the Land of Oz.’

‘And am I a prisoner?’

‘Bless the child! Of course.’

‘Then why is the prison so fine, and why are you so kind to me?’ he earnestly asked.

Tollydiggle seemed surprised by the question, but she presently answered:

‘We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways – because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners.’

Ojo thought this over very carefully. ‘I had an idea,’ said he, ‘that prisoners were always treated harshly, to punish them.’

‘That would be dreadful!’ cried Tollydiggle. ‘Isn’t one punished enough in knowing he has done wrong? Don’t you wish, Ojo, with all your heart, that you had not been disobedient and broken the Law of Oz?’

‘I – I hate to be different from other people,’ he admitted.

‘Yes; one likes to be respected as highly as his neighbors are,’ said the woman. ‘When you are tried and found guilty, you will be obliged to make amends, in some way. I don’t know just what Ozma will do to you, because this is the first time one of us has broken a Law, but you may be sure she will be just and merciful. Here in the Emerald City people are too happy and contented ever to do wrong; but perhaps you came from some faraway corner of our land, and having no love for Ozma carelessly broke one of her Laws.’

‘Yes,’ said Ojo, ‘I’ve lived all my life in the heart of a lonely forest, where I saw no one but dear Unc. Nunkie.’

‘I thought so,’ said Tollydiggle. ‘But now we have talked enough, so let us play a game until bedtime.’”

Holden switched the log book off and stood from the table to get a drink of water. He opened the cabinet where the glasses used to be and found it stocked with cans of soup and vegetables. Allowing Eve a chance to process what just happened, he walked the square of his old kitchen in search of the glasses and eventually discovered them in the cabinet above the sink.

“What,” Eve attempted, over the splash of tap water. “What are you telling me? The Publishing House is changing the stories without telling us?” Holden sipped from his glass, nodding. “But why?”

“Why do you think, Eve?”

She knew why, but she didn’t want to say. From the moment Holden walked into her house, she had been off guard. In fact, she had been folding laundry when the doorbell rang. Eve hadn’t been expecting such mind-shifting knowledge and especially to come from him. The man standing in front of her, the one with concern on his face that looked too happy to be worried, was not the same man she had married. He was different. He was confident.

Holden set down his glass, looked back and, for the first time in years, saw the Eve he knew as a child. Soft, precious, gracious and kind hearted, but most of all, fragile. The news he had just delivered had launched her mind into a realm it was never prepared to go, and it frightened her. But, at the same time, he saw the new Eve. The one that plotted and contemplated. The one that was able to get half of his paycheck and possibly sole custody of their daughter. As each second passed, she was taking steps to protect herself. He could see the battle behind her ebony lashes and hazel eyes. She was already compromising. Telling herself that she shouldn’t believe because believing meant change and change wasn’t always a good thing.

I mean, look around, Eve, she was thinking. You just got your life back in order. The carpet guy just finished three days ago.

Holden knew Eve had been wondering what would happen if she listened any further. He was wondering the same thing. How would her life be altered if he read another passage? Would she be able to stop from caring? Would she unknowingly welcome the change that would kill the new Eve? This was precisely the thought that forced her to place her hand on Holden’s knee. She couldn’t allow herself to hear any more.

This was an important moment in her life. Holden saw the moment in drips of seconds and he knew exactly what to say.

He took a breath before beginning.

“Eve, do you remember when we were dating…when you first told me about what had happened to your grandmother? Do you remember where we were that day and how…?”

The phone rang.

Eve, limp and vulnerable, didn’t hear it until the second ring. Then, as if her heart were suddenly pierced with a syringe of adrenaline, she fell from the stool, pivoted on her heels and dove for the rattling cell phone. In one long word, she spat, “Sorry-Holden-I-have-to-take-this.”

Holden relaxed his shoulders. He smiled. It hadn’t taken long to break through the ice, to breach its hard, cold exterior, and he was proud for making himself susceptible enough to failure. Watching Eve skip into the next room, he pictured her and Jane at Winston’s and, for a moment, felt a tinge of guilt. How would Marion feel? What would this do to his relationship with her? Not that they were in a relationship, because they weren’t, but there had been something going on between them, hadn’t there? How would they relate to one another with his ex-wife in the same room? Marion couldn’t leave. And if Eve were suddenly over all the time, how would Marion feel? Oh, but Jane. If he could see Jane everyday, how special everything would be.

Knowing she was only a staircase away, Holden left the room to find his daughter, gripping the log book with confidence. He navigated the hallways and up the stairs to the one room he had missed more than any other; but when he reached the threshold, he felt as if he’d been in a coma for the past four years. Everything had changed. Her bedroom was different. The furniture, the paint on the walls, the animals on the bed. Different without Dad. He wondered what choices Jane had made on her own and which ones Eve had orchestrated. What else could he expect? He never comes over anymore.

When he came to pick up Jane (when he remembered to pick her up) he pulled his van into the driveway and waited. Normally, Eve dropped her off at the toothpaste house he called home. Whenever she was over, he made the bed for her and placed out the one stuffed animal he had bought at a filling station so she could have a friend to sleep next to. But, without fail, they always ended up in the living room – him in his easy chair, her on the couch and the stuffed animal somewhere amongst the folds of her blanket. Jane would have preferred the comforts of his bed to the coils of his couch, but she never wanted to leave his side. He hoped that love of Daddy would never fade, but her bedroom was telling him different. It was the room of a young girl on the way to young womanhood.

Holden was suddenly longing for the days and hours he had missed out on. How he wanted those back. How he would change things if he could.

Jane caught him in the corner of her eye. She pulled her headphones from her ears and spun, her cropped curly hair bouncing as she shined a bright smile and leapt out of her desk chair to hug him once more. “Daddy, I didn’t hear you. Why were you waiting at the door? You could have come in.”

“Well…” he said, kissing the crown of her bushy head. To his nose, which often carried the stench of pipe dope laced with threading grease, she still smelled like a newborn. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

She reached for his hand and he gave her the left, awkwardly. Although the branding iron had cooled rapidly after shutdown hours prior, he didn’t want to take any chances with his baby. Jane led him to her new desk (it had the wear and tear of a few years which meant that it was only new to him - another reminder of how much he had missed), and showed him pictures that she had drawn with her digital sketch book. Intricate sketches of animals with bodies that swirled into lines and odd three-dimensional shapes. She forced him to admire each one independently and put him on the spot to hear his artistic assessment. Every time that he said, “How pretty,” she would interrupt him with a tilted head of disappointment. Holden just adored the way she would say, “Dad,” by breaking the name down in two, distinct vocal registers. Da-ad was a rollercoaster drop from high to low. After such drama, he would then, of course, over-elaborate until she rolled her eyes, shook her head and scrolled on to the next picture.

When they were finished studying her newest drawings, Jane tugged him over to her bed where he had left the digital log book and pulled her backpack up to his lap. He admired the many patches that danced irregularly along the straps and between the zippers as she scrounged for something important to show him. His smile faded when he saw what it was. Jane took out a very compact, very sleek version of The Book. His joyous occasion with his daughter suddenly became a stark, hope-drifting nightmare as Holden was gifted with an evocatively honest realization. Jane was still reading The Book. Of course she was. Every day at school.

Holden watched as she flipped it open without fear and, with a sharpened pointer finger, swirled rapidly through the menus on the ever-bland screen. There were swoops, taps, double taps and then, as if by magic, a story by Charles Dickens was upon them. And Jane, his trusting, pure, faithful daughter, was telling him all about the characters that he knew so very well.

“I know how much you love Dickens, Dad,” she piped, rolling through the chapters.

“Yeah,” he said, slowly accepting the sorrow of what was before him. He did love Dickens, right? Or was it Ann O. the Editor’s best friend that he liked? Maybe his favorite lines had simply been nothing more than her subcontracted transitions. He didn’t love the words of Charles Dickens. He loved The Book’s abridged interpretation of Charles Dickens. He loved only what they wanted him to love. Holden stopped listening to her questions in the shock of such a thought. Jane noticed when he stopped commenting. Then she saw that his fingernail wasn’t as sharpened as it normally had been and went to inspect it. That was when it happened. The catalyst that brought on the most memorable moment in the rest of his daughter’s life.

The screen went dark.

The recycling icon of The Book appeared for a moment, animating, until it dissolved peacefully and the words Update in Progress swam in pixels to the screen in a nondescript script. Holden’s jaw slackened and he reached for The Book, while his daughter muttered, “Awhh, I hate it when this happens. It’s like all the time now, right? That must annoy you, Daddy.” Jane’s eyes trailed down to his finger again. It hadn’t been left unsharpened. His fingernail had been clipped. Retracted back to the level of the others. Her father was wearing a declaration of the non-reader. “I know how much you love The Book.”

Jane watched as his face slowly tightened, his teeth grinding below clenched lips, his eyebrows knitting above the bridge of his once-busted nose. His grip on her Book grew so frighteningly strong that his knuckles were whitening. In the calmest manner imaginable, Holden drawled, “Where does your mother keep her copies of The Book?”

“Dad? Are you okay?”

“Jane. Answer me,” he said, his voice like steel in the quiet of the room.

“There’s two in the table beside her bed. And there’s another one that she tried to throw away last year. I think it’s the one you gave her, but…I took it out of the garbage. I’m sorry.” Based on the look in her father’s eyes, a look she had never seen before that frightened years from her life, Jane rambled off its location, along with the question she needed an answer to, in a single, hasty word. “It’s-in-my-closet-on-top-of-my-sweater-why-is-everything-okay?”

“No, Jane. Everything is not okay.”

Holden rose like a machine from the edge of her tiny bed with a single task to achieve before self-destruction. Without considering the delicacy of sliding doors, he tore them open and began rummaging wildly through her closet. The image of him wrenching sweaters off their shelves and shirts from their hangers welded itself to her mind, where it found a place to hide forever.

“Have I done something wrong, Daddy?”

“No,” he wheezed, finding the Book he had purchased for Eve on their first anniversary. He tossed it into the hallway, dropped to his knees and took Jane’s face in his left hand, repeating, “No, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything wrong. Daddy just needs to do this right now.”

Ravenous with the desire to destroy all the Books he could find, Holden sped into Eve’s bedroom and tore open her side table. He would not allow such blatant mind control to rest within thirty feet of his daughter ever again. He found the other two quickly and returned to the hallway for the third, where he stood at the top of the stairs, searching blankly for a solution. His eyes darted in every direction.

It couldn’t be water. Water simply wouldn’t do the trick anymore. Most hand held computers had an internal, waterproof sheet and drainage system to protect the logic board, hard disk and other components. Everyone knew that. Even if that system had been compromised, Eve could easily have the device fixed. And it would take too long to smash them. She could already be off the phone.

“Microwave!” Holden announced, like a mad scientist at the birth of a haunting discovery. He raced down the stairs with Jane at his heels and into the kitchen where he tossed the books onto the countertop, yanked open the microwave and threw them onto the lid of a defrosting casserole. The sound of them clanging and clattering against the inside made Eve race into the kitchen with the cell phone at her ear.

“Holden! What are you doing?”

“These Books are controlling you, Eve. You can’t have them in the house anymore.” He punched the keys for maximum power and pressed start. The reaction between the screens was instantaneous. Sparks scattered from behind the small window. A puff of smoke broke through the hinge of the closest spine. There came a random series of pops and suddenly flames were billowing from each of the plastic corners. Within seconds, the entire microwave was a cloud of brackish smoke and light from angry flames of neon green.

Eve dropped her phone and propelled herself toward the microwave. “Jane get out of here! Your father’s going insane.”

She began to cry. “Daddy?”

He turned and lowered himself to her level. “Everything’s fine now, Sweetie,” Holden whispered, as Eve erupted at the disarray, grabbed what was left of his water glass and launched it onto the molten remains. The liquid succeeded at dousing the flames, but the puff of acrid stink it sent to her face also met the smoke detector in the hall.

“What have you done?” she asked over the shrill scream of the alarm. “That was my mother’s Book, you jerk! I can’t believe you just did that!”

Holden grasped his daughter’s shoulders and leaned forward, locking himself in her eyes as he prepared to speak slowly and intentionally. Things were about to change. Eve was going to make him leave and he wouldn’t know when the next chance to tell his daughter about the Book would come. But as he prepared to explain everything as simply as he could, a noise came from the driveway. Doors were closing. Multiple doors. He peeked over at Eve and her face shifted. A small laugh escaped her mouth. And then she shrugged.

“What did you do, Eve?” Holden asked, fully aware that she had been downstairs, alone, for a long time. Slowly, he stood, his cautious, unblinking eyes judging her tightened body language. He pulled from it many familiar truths before asking the obvious. “Who did you call?”

A knock came at the front door. The simple confession of its aggressiveness confirmed all that she had done.

“You know…I…when you first started talking to me, you made a little bit of sense, but Holden, this is scary what you’ve done. And…you know what? You’re…you’re scaring me.”

“Eve,” Holden began, his face stripped of emotion in such immediate surprise. “You just killed me.” The unmasked honesty of his words disturbed her and, seeing a different man standing in her living room than the one she had married, Eve felt certain that he was telling the truth. “Do you realize what you have just done? To me. To yourself. To our daughter? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Holden lowered himself to his daughter for the third time. She was shaking with dread. As voices came to the door, he found, deep within himself, a calmness that was foreign to her and he brushed the fingers of his left hand over her ear. The people at the door were wrenching on the handle of the screen and Holden was grateful for unconscious deeds. He had been so used to locking the screen when he lived there, that the involuntary action had bought him some time. Well, it bought him half a minute.

Holden took a breath, locked himself in his daughter’s eyes again and said, “I love you, Jane. Whatever they say about me…don’t believe it. It’s all lies. Don’t read The Book, Jane. It’s being controlled.”

The door broke open.

Holden saw, from the corner of his teary vision, three men wearing dark suits and green striped ties with blonde, delicately cropped hair. Their sharp, green eyes locked onto him and one of the robotic men smiled and said, “If it isn’t the Tin Soldier.”

He had seconds. Pieces of seconds.

“Don’t listen to them, Jane,” he said, standing with awkward abruptness as the men approached. She nodded and Eve yanked her to the kitchen. “Whatever they say about your father, don’t listen to them.”

“I won’t, Daddy.” Jane blinked, tears streaming in bullets from her eyes.

“Look at me, Jane,” he cried, “I want to tell you everything is going to be alright. For you and your friends…and your friend’s families…but I can’t…”

Holden felt the grip of many arms as the men seized him by the shoulders. Jane shrieked and Eve clamored to shield her daughter’s eyes. Holden struggled against their grip like an untamed tiger. Under their sudden weight, while they grappled for a piece of Holden they could restrain, he turned to see Eve’s face and the immediate regret that rested there. She was frightened. She was guilty. What was happening in her home, in her living room, was wrong. But there was nothing she could do to stop it at that point. Those men hadn’t come to take her husband away for questioning. They were fighting him. By calling the police, she had done something horribly wrong and, as she watched them struggle to take him to the ground, Eve already knew that Holden was right. She would never see him again.

One of the larger men let go of Holden’s arm to reach one of his legs and, in the process, accidentally switched on the branding machine. There was no noise or light to indicate that it had happened. Holden knew because he felt his palm growing warm. As another man, a mass of neckless meat, strolled casually into the room holding a stun gun, Holden reacted in the only way that made sense. He loosened his right shoulder, swung his palm at the man and it caught him directly in the face.

There was a guttural wail. The man jackknifed away with a hand clutched to his smoking face, and he was screaming a high-pitched, alien squeal of utterly agonizing pain. The others, entirely confused by what had happened during the struggle, loosened their grip and Holden pushed himself free. Eve had done the same with Jane and the young girl ran. At that moment, all her eleven-year-old mind understood was that she wanted to lock herself onto her father, hoping that the presence of a little girl would make the bad men leave him alone. That they would see her crying, hear her plea and leave. What did happen was all together different.

As Jane rushed forward, one of the men shoved her powerfully into the dumpy couch. Holden retaliated with mad rage, kicking the man in the stomach and bashing his jaw to fragments with a sturdy left hook. After hearing one of their own screaming a high-pitched alien squeal of utterly agonizing pain, two other Agents had entered the house. When they saw their comrade on the floor, gripping his face, the cyborgian men joined the others in attempt to lock Holden in place. The Agents strode boldly across the carpeting, their faces maddening and their shoes working traces of filth into the fresh, white fibers.

In a last ditch effort, Holden flailed, kicked and wriggled in place, knowing the fight that was coming. He used his weight to take two of them down, but there were three more grappling for his limbs. He was so aggressive and too focused on taking it to them in a desperate attempt to get away, too lost in the hope of freedom, that he didn’t notice where his right arm was swinging.

Jane hadn’t seen it coming either.

She didn’t know what her father had in his hand. She had seen him hit the man that was still squirming on the floor in pain, but hadn’t tried to understand. That man, whose tie strung through his shivering fingers, had been holding his face and she knew he was hurt. But when her father’s struggling arm swung and caught her across the chest, all Jane knew was the sting. The pain as his palm collided with her before she was launched into the coffee table, her nylon t-shirt melted to her skin.

Things were moving so quickly. Holden didn’t know who he had hit. His strategy was to swing at everything and hope for the best. But when he heard the sound that escaped his daughter’s lips, he turned and he screamed.

“Jane! No! NO!”

His eyes gushed with tears, the instant he saw that innocent face staring back at him with eyes that only asked why, as pain she had never imagined launched itself into her chest and wouldn’t go away no matter how hard she focused or how loud she cried our or how insanely she writhed.

Holden knew the man had risen from the floor, but he wasn’t looking and he didn’t care. The neckless Agent with burns across his face was approaching with a wail in his voice that was louder than the smoke alarm and wilder still than the dog that howled in the next room, but all Holden heard was his daughter as she scratched violently at her shirt. When the man came close, Holden could hear the sound of his teeth gnashing in vengeance, he could see the stun gun in the man’s hand and closed his eyes, welcoming the sweet shock of unconsciousness. For, in the volts it would bring, he would not have to hear the pain he had inflicted on his daughter.

Ever again.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

025-66304

 

 

Holden couldn’t remember why his face was so cold. How often did he forget things? He felt so stupid. It was like every day he was forgetting something new. Where could he go from here? Vitamins. He never took his vitamins. Maybe if someone came out with a beer that was infused with vitamins. But then, that didn’t explain why his face was so cold, did it? Numb almost. As he pushed himself up to settle his sleepy mind, an image of Jane’s face –

Holden thunderbolted to an upright stance, locked his knees and yanked his eyes open with a voice-cracking shriek. A sudden dizziness overtook him and he lost his balance. He tried to remain standing, but his shoes were missing and he fell back to where he had been sitting. Laying. A dull gong of cold metal and a tiny scratch swept the room around him as he pushed himself up, blinking every millisecond to adjust his eyes to the brightness.

His shoes. Where were his shoes?

Eve’s carpet was new. He took them off at the door.

If his shoes were there, where was he?

He was in a room. A large, white-walled room with no windows, standing on a lush, loop pile green carpet that resembled a lawn of grass below a ceiling painted in sky blue. He couldn’t recall how he had gotten there and, from the way his vision was swimming, assumed that he had been drugged. Despite his complete dislocation, he felt eerily comfortable. At peace. There were no clouds painted in blurry cotton balls of white or hokey drawings of trees on the walls, but he wasn’t stupid. Holden knew that the materials and colors chosen throughout the room, even down to the brown metal bench he had slept upon, were all chosen for the specific task of keeping the room’s occupants calm. This realization quickly increased his tension.

Why did he need to be calm?

Holden rolled his shoulders. He was sore all throughout his body and he was wearing the same clothes he had worn when he arrived at Eve’s. Although he was lighter now, wasn’t he. Yes, the shoes. But, more importantly, the branding machine had been removed along with his wallet and watch. Even the change from his pockets was missing. He was left in a mysterious indoor park with nothing but the clothes on his back, with socks that had holes in the toes. Holden cracked his neck and stood up to look around the room for some identification of where he was, steadying himself as the dizziness returned. Those men who had taken him were Agents from the Publishing House, he knew that. At least that was how they described themselves before taking him for a stroll through Lincoln Park on an oh-so-sunny day.

Thanks again for the umbrella guys. First you try to kill me with a cold and then…this. Whatever this is.

Along the shortest wall, there was a rectangular window as tall as him that didn’t reach the ground. It stepped out from the flat, white surface with a smooth, metal edge that beveled toward a vibrantly glossy, black-green glass. It seemed to hang like a bedroom mirror and as Holden approached it, he could see his reflection in the darkness. He touched the smooth surface lightly and the window awoke. The black-green glass morphed to the most peaceful white. Holden stepped back a few paces and noticed as the recycling icon of the Publishing House gently broke through the white like a rising bubble in a bottle of milk. The curved, brown arrows that coiled in a triangle wove like silent, hungry snakes, bound for infinity to chase one another’s tails. Noiseless and slow, they followed the one before them.

Holden believed, at that moment, that if he continued to watch the icon weaving on the milky screen, he would be drawn into it. Before long he would be a different person. He would be one of The Book’s foremost defenders. One of its abdicators, leading the cheering section for technology and convenience. All this was in his head, of course (of course), but wasn’t that where the triangle of arrows was attempting to bore its way into?

Standing before the black-green glass, gazing strangely into its depths, Holden felt at once that if he was in that space, that outdoor room, for more than an hour, staring at that stupid icon, he would lose himself in anger and break the glass with his elbow. Maybe his head. Whatever would stop the spinning. Because it seemed to laugh at him. It seemed to stand before him, crisp behind its unblemished frame in that clean, vacuumed environment, laughing the words: REDUCE REUSE RECYCLE.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RECYCLE

 

 

 

 

 

 

RECYCLE

RECYCLE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

026-67122

 

 

RECYCLE RECYCLE YOUR PAPER BOOKS RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE RECYCLE