“They understand it better than any adult you know would. This will get better on its own, Marci. Look.” He wiggled his thumb at her. It was now the size of the tip of his pinky, and had a well-formed nail and cuticle.
“That’s not all that has to get better,” she said. “You can’t just let this fester. Your brother. That thing in the cave… ” She shook her head. “Someone needs to know about this. You’re not safe.”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Marci. This is important. No one except you knows, and that’s how it has to be. If you tell—”
“What?” She got up and pulled her coat on. “What, Alan? If I tell and try to help you, what will you do to me?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled into his chest.
“Well, you do whatever you have to do,” she said, and stomped out of the cave.
Davey escaped at dawn. Kurt had gone outside to repark his old Buick, the trunk bungeed shut over his haul of LCD flat panels, empty laser-toner cartridges, and open gift baskets of pricey Japanese cosmetics. Alan and Davey just glared at each other, but then Davey closed his eyes and began to snore softly, and even though Alan paced and pinched the bridge of his nose and stretched out his injured arm, he couldn’t help it when he sat down and closed his eyes and nodded off.
Alan woke with a start, staring at the empty loops of duct tape and twine hanging from his captain’s chair, dried strings of skin like desiccated banana peel fibers hanging from them. He swore to himself quietly, and shouted Shit! at the low basement ceiling. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few seconds, and the half-window that Davey had escaped through gaped open at him like a sneer.
He tottered to his feet and went out to find Kurt, bare feet jammed into sneakers, bare chest and bandages covered up with a jacket. He found Kurt cutting through the park, dragging his heels in the bloody dawn light.