The Alignment by Kay Camden Page A

emotion.
    “It can’t be helped.”
    I stare into my glass. My life has somehow spiraled into a new form of turmoil ever since he ran into me a few days ago.
    “Are you in the witness protection program or something?” I sound accusatory without meaning to.
    He searches my face and replies, dragging out the word, “Yes.”
    “What’s your real name?” I try to make it come out softer.
    “I didn’t change my name.”
    “You can’t be in the witness protection program and not change your name.” My shrill voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me.
    His face morphs back into the face I sat next to during our drive together this morning. His eyes narrow and his mouth sets into a harsh line beside a tense jaw, settling the permanent scowl back into its natural position. He pours more liquor into his glass and drinks it in one swig.
    My stomach turns, and I stand suddenly, shoving the chair backward with my legs. “Can I go outside?”
    “No.”
    “So I’m a hostage?”
    He exhales loudly. “Yes.”
    I stare at him.
    “But please, make yourself at home.”
    I need to get out of this room. I turn to fix the chair and notice he has a back porch similar to mine. “What about the porch? Is the porch okay?”
    He looks at me as if he’s surprised I’m still talking. “The porch is okay.”
    My thoughts clear. “So, everything outside is booby-trapped except for the porch.”
    He addresses the ceiling instead of me. “Yes. Just don’t get too close to the railing.”
    I escape outside into the early evening air. The land here is lower in elevation, close enough to the river for me to hear the gurgle of water over rock, even though it’s mostly drowned out by the cacophony of chatty birds in the trees looming over the house. Unlike my cabin which is high on its own slope, this cabin lies deep in the elements—hunkered under pine trees, sidling next to the river. The only view is coniferous forest rising up on all sides.
    A vegetable garden spans most of the gentle slope behind the house until it drops away and changes from trimmed lawn to overgrown grass to forest bursting skyward. Flat wooden boxes with slanted glass covers are built into the earth past the farthest row of plants, some of their lids propped open with wooden blocks at the corners. They look like miniature greenhouses. This guy is dedicated to whatever he’s growing.
    A wide trail is worn in the grass along the length of the garden, and at the far end rests a huge tractor tire on its side. I’ve seen rural yards with abandoned farm equipment, but usually nature is trying to reclaim the metal and rubber. This tire is clear of all weeds and plants, like it dropped straight out of the sky then skidded down the grass on its side, exposing a path of dirt. I peer over the railing to see that the trail ends at a pile of sandbags at the house. I can’t imagine the river would flood all the way here. But if it does, a dozen sandbags aren’t going to save much. Maybe he uses them for his booby traps. Trip a wire, get a sandbag on the head.
    I sink into a chair, roll my pant leg up over my knee and unwind the bandage from around my calf. Scabs are beginning to form, but the skin still feels tender. More noticeable are the dark purple bruises mottling my leg from ankle to knee. I wonder when I’m going to think about why I’m here, what just happened, and who did that to my house, but it just feels like a bad dream. There’s no reason to dwell on a bad dream.
    The twisting in my stomach has eased in a way I know is only temporary, so I sit and enjoy the breeze until I start feeling restless. I suppose I could unpack my things so I can get ready for work easily tomorrow. And I need to do something about dinner. He can’t expect me to eat dinner with him. I stand and turn back to the door. Dried flowers and herbs hang in the eaves along the entire length of the house. I’m surprised I didn’t notice that before.
    I slide the glass door closed