Free The Rag and Bone Shop by Robert Cormier

you?”
    The question, in fact this entire line of questioning, made Jason pause before replying. He didn’t want to talk anymore about these things with a stranger like this man. It was like Trent was trying to peek into his heart.
    “I don’t want to talk about it,” Jason said.
    “About Alicia and the way she was found?”
    Jason nodded.
    “I realize how tough this must be for you, since she was such a good friend. But sometimes it’s better to talk. Instead of keeping it all inside. Maybe this questioning can help you personally as well as help the investigation.”
    “How can it help me?” Jason asked, mollified a bit. Mr. Trent’s voice had become soft and tender, his attitude suddenly sympathetic.
    “There are such things as trauma, Jason. Shock. When something like this happens, the death of a friend, it can affect you emotionally, deeper than you think. And it’s sometimes good to express your sadness and your anger and your regret . . .”
    “Regret?” The word sounded strange.
    “Something you’re sorry about.”
    “I’m sorry Alicia’s . . . I mean, I’m sorry about what happened to Alicia, but what else can I be sorry about?”
    “That’s for you to say, Jason. That’s a question you have to answer. I can’t answer for you.”
    Jason, puzzled and confused again, was aware of his thirst returning. Mr. Trent had forgotten to bring him a drink. His mouth was dry, tongue parched. He was afraid he might choke if he tried to swallow. He had heard somewhere that swallowing was a reflex action, that people couldn’t help swallowing. Suppose he swallowed now and began to choke? He was aware, too, that he was sweating, that his T-shirt was stuck to his back, the perspiration like glue between his flesh and the cloth. He gulped in sudden panic. When he spoke, his voice emerged in a kind of croak, like a frog’s voice.
    “What?” Mr. Trent asked.
    Jason was relieved that he had found enough spit to swallow without choking. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Can I have a glass of water?”
    He saw the questioner hesitate.
    “I won’t try to escape again,” he said, immediately sorry that he had used the word.
    “You seem upset. Upset about being sorry?”
    “I’m just thirsty,” Jason said.
    “All right,” Trent said. “I’ll find you something to drink. You’re important to this investigation, Jason, and if having a drink will make you feel better, then you’ll have your drink.”
    Why did the words sound threatening? Like his thirst was some kind of admission. But of what?
    Trent went to the door, knowing that he was departing from protocol, breaking the rules. But his success was largely the result of following his instincts and his instincts here told him to tread lightly, to treat the boy gently, to gain his entire confidence. He wondered if Sarah was back in the corridor with any news.
    The corridor was empty.
    He looked for a vending machine, found one tucked in an alcove near the back entrance.
    Returning with a can of Coke Classic cold in his hand, he waited for a moment outside the door, hoping for a glimpse of someone, anyone. Suddenly lonely, an emotion foreign to him, he went into the office.
    Jason received the Coke with a murmur of thanks and asked: “Did you get one, too?”
    Trent shook his head. He suspended all hunger and thirst during interrogations, but the question surprised him. Subjects never considered him beyond his role as an interrogator, never made any personal remarks or inquiries. This sudden recognition of himself as a person by this boy made him pause. He watched the boy gulping the Coke greedily, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his hand trembling slightly. Trent knew a moment of misgiving. This boy, vulnerable, defenseless, with no knowledge of what awaited him.
    Time to get out, Trent thought. Get this over with and collect his due from the senator. And somehow make his own escape.

    " S hall we begin again?”
    The boy, obviously refreshed, the