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Jeanette stops cutting the onion and wipes her eyes.

"Orson’s dead, young man. But you’re welcome to go."

# # #

The rapist, Willard Bass, chases little Andy and Orson through the tunnel. In the distance, the circle of light at the end grows larger and brighter. Andy stops suddenly and spins around. Willard stops running, too. Filthy, wide-eyed, and breathless, he stares at the boys.

"Our turn!" Andy yells, and now the twins chase Willard back into the darkness.

When running in this direction, the tunnel has no end.

"Guilty, Your Honor. So very guilty."

# # #

Andy stands behind a lectern in an infinite bookstore. The crowd goes back for miles and miles. Every face in the audience glares at him. He looks down at the page he will read from, but the words are gobbledygook. He turns the page. More nonsense.

"I can’t read this," he says into the microphone. "It doesn’t make any sense."

"Read it anyway," someone shouts.

"But it’s meaningless."

Several boos emanate from the crowd.

"All right, all right, I’ll try."

Sweat beads on his face. He looks down at the page and reads aloud, slowly and with great difficulty.

"smf ejprbrt ,idy nr s vtrsypt om hppf smf rbo;. brto;u. jr ,idy gotdy nr sm smmojo;sypt smf ntrsl bs;ird/ yjid yjr johjrdy rbo; nr;pmhd yp yjr johjrdy hppfmrddz’ niy yjod od vtrsyobr/"

The crowd roars with affirmation. Now people are standing and clapping and shouting, "More! More!"

# # #

A giant onion stands in a kitchen, chopping up Andy’s mother, its eyes watering profusely.

# # #

Andy enters the study of his lake house. A man sits at his desk, typing on his computer. Andy stands behind the writer, listening to the patter of fingers on the keyboard and trying to read the text on the monitor. The writer glances back, just a small boy now.

"You better not read it," Orson warns and then goes back to typing. Andy leans forward and squints at the computer screen. The words are gobbledygook.

"What are you writing?" Andy asks.

"It’s a story. About you."

"What happens in it?"

"You go insane."

# # #

They lower me into a squeaky leather chair. The warmth of a fire laps at my face.

"Thank you, son. I’d like to talk to him alone now."

A door closes. The quiet pandemonium of the fire fills the room. I cannot recall the last time I’ve had such presence of mind. The recent past holds all the clarity of a coma, and the shards of memory I do have are not worth keeping. I wonder if it’s Christmas yet. I wonder many things.

As I lift my head, the textures of the room begin to materialize and vivify.

It’s night. Beyond the windows, I hear the tinkling of ice pellets. I recognize this room—the empty bookcases, the hearth, the satellite photograph of the Outer Banks, the oil painting of Luther Kite. I don’t remember when or why, but I’ve been in this room before.

Luther’s father sits across from me in an identical leather chair, legs crossed and stately in his black, satin robe.

"Don’t be afraid, Andy," Rufus says, smiling. "It’s my great joy and privilege to be sitting here with you."

I manage to home in on the details of his face. Rufus Kite must be at least seventy-five years old. But aside from a field of wrinkles and a few liver spots, he appears to be in phenomenal physical condition. He possesses the eyes of a young man—hard, vital, and thrilled with his place in the world. I can see the reflection of flames in them. His white hair is combed back and damp, as though he just stepped out of the shower.

"When is it?" I ask.

"You mean what month?"

His voice echoes. I wonder if it’s the room or my brain.

"Yes."

"It’s late March."

"No, but…" It takes a great effort to speak, and I have difficulty keeping my eyes open. "How long—"

"You’ve been with us for a hundred and forty-one days."

"No, it can’t be that—"

"You know what they say. Time flies."

I suspect he’s lying to me. It seems impossible that almost five months have elapsed since I came to this island. It feels more like a week.

"Where are the girls?" I ask. "Did I dream they were here?"

"Andy,