The Dispatcher by Ryan David Jahn Page B

blond stubble. Scooped another bite into his mouth and milk dripped down his chin and he wiped at it with his hand.
    ‘What do you want to do today?’
    ‘Petting zoo!’
    ‘What if they mistake you for one of the goats and fence you in?’
    Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘They won’t.’
    ‘How do you know? You’re stubborn as a goat.’
    ‘I don’t even know what that means.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we wait till Jeffrey wakes up and weighs in?’
    ‘He loves the petting zoo.’
    ‘He’s never been.’
    ‘Then we should definitely go. He’s only here another two days and he needs to go before he leaves town.’
    ‘You have a point.’
    ‘See?’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Okay?’
    Daddy nodded.
    ‘Okay what?’
    ‘Okay okay.’
    ‘Okay petting zoo?’
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Really really.’
    ‘Promise?’
    ‘Promise. Now eat your cereal before it gets soggy.’
    ‘You’re the best daddy ev—’
     
     
     
    ‘Wake up.’
    A familiar voice gurgling up from swampy depths. The stench of onion on a wave of breath. The sound of swallowing.
    Something small shatters in a sharp pop. A moment later the stink of ammonia fills her nostrils. Her eyes flutter open. Warm water runs down her cheeks.
    Everything is dark and without form. A shadow, like a vaguely human-shaped hole scissored out of reality, before her. Behind it, bright white light making it impossible for her to see anything more than shadow. She closes her eyes and opens them again. Her pupils shrink, adjusting to the room. The shadow grows features, taking on detail and color and a third dimension. It is a man. The man has a name and she knows what it is. Henry. She blinks again and sees him clearly for the first time since waking. He simply stands before her with his arms at his sides, fists opening and closing.
    Then he reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a roll of something, small white disks, and thumbs one into his mouth. He chews it, swallows.
    There’s an intense pain in her wrists. She can feel blood warm and thick rolling down her arms. She looks up and sees her wrists tied together with coarse yellow rope. The rope is slung over a large metal hook which has been screwed into a wooden ceiling beam. Her hands above the rope are purple and numb, bloated fingers curled slightly, fingertips touching. She has been here before: the punishment hook. You’ve been very bad, Sarah. Very bad indeed. Looking at her fingers she thinks of a rhyme she learned in Sunday school. Here is the church and here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people.
    Her feet dangle far above the cracked gray surface of the concrete floor.
    Henry stands and stares. Fists opening and closing, opening and closing. He tongues at a molar. His breathing sounds funny. It gets heavier and thicker and faster.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
    His breathing stops. There is silence.
    Then: ‘But you’re really not, are you?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘What are you sorry for?’
    One two three four five six seven eight.
    She looks around for Borden, just to know that she isn’t alone down here. Just to know that she isn’t alone with Henry. Maybe he’s standing in the shadows somewhere. She knows he cannot save her from whatever punishment Henry will be delivering, but seeing him would be a comfort still. She does not see him.
    A hand across her face so hard it makes her eyes water and a bruise above her ear begins to throb. She had forgotten about it, that place where Henry punched her earlier, but now it is throbbing with the beat of her heart.
    ‘I said what are you sorry for?’
    She looks down at her feet once more. They are filthy, black with dirt, and if she ignores the pain she can pretend she is simply floating above the floor. A crack in the concrete moves left and right beneath her as she swings by her wrists. Just pretend you’re floating: above the ground without a care in the world.
    He reaches toward her. She instinctively recoils. He slaps at her