Free Burn by Monica Hesse Page A

sign of confidence from this man-boy was the fact that he placed himself in such a subservient position.
    â€œHow are you feeling today?” he asked. Such careful pleasantries.
    The prisoner said nothing.
    Hypothesis
: If I say nothing, he will be forced to give me more information.
    â€œI heard they took away your pen yesterday,” the boy continued. They had. He was right. They didn’t take it away so much as it had been removed still sticking out of the hand it had been stabbed in. They should have known better. The prisoner had a history with pens. “How did it feel, when you stabbed Anders?”
    News: The man with the smushed face’s name was Anders.
    â€œDid it make you feel pleased?” he continued. “How much did he bleed, and what did you think when it got on your clothes?”
    The prisoner looked away. Those discussions were unnecessarily stomach-churning.
    â€œI’m sure it feels impossible to be without a means of communicating ideas – especially for someone in your profession.” The boy sighed. “But I’m sure you understand that I can’t really give you another one.”
    He shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crayon. It was new and sharp, a dusty coal color. “Outer Space,” the paper wrapping read. The name of this color was Outer Space. “I thought that this could be a replacement.”
    The boy placed the crayon on the floor, equidistant between the two of them. A sign of respect. He would not make the prisoner lose dignity by crawling and grabbing for the crayon.
    â€œI hoped that you could use this to continue with your work,” he said. “And when it’s done, I can bring you another one. And after a while, maybe we can create a workspace for you.”
    A better workspace. A life outside of these four walls. The prisoner’s heart jumped and then thudded back again. This was a ploy. Obviously. This was a way of engendering gratefulness. How long had the prisoner been in this room? Days? Weeks? Long enough to forget memories, and original identities. Long enough to be known as the prisoner.
    â€œSometimes I can’t tell,” the boy said thoughtfully. When he turned his head toward the window, the light caught it and made his hair glow. “Sometimes I can’t tell how much it is that you don’t remember and how much it is that you’re just refusing to say.” He reached down to the crayon, to Outer Space, and, with his graceful fingers, rolled it a few inches away from him, disrupting the equilibrium, conceding the middle ground. “I really hope this will all be over very soon,” he said. “I hate to keep you here like this – not when we should all be on the same side. We need your help, and you can leave as soon as you give it.”
    Hypothesis:
That was a lie
.
    The flamehaired boy rose to his feet. He brushed the knees of his pants – a gesture that seemed less human than humanesque – as if he had studied humans and had learned they behaved in such a manner.
    â€œIn the meantime,” he said. “You must think we’re very, very cruel.”

16
    The library was busy on a Saturday morning – little kids there for a story hour, and students Lona’s age working on research projects. Lona walked past all of them to the reason she’d come to this particular branch, several miles from her usual one.
    FEDERAL REFERENCE DESK, the sign said, in all capital letters.
    Lona cleared her throat. The girl at the desk had dark red lipstick and an eyebrow piercing, chunky, trendy-looking glasses, and apparently no interest in being helpful.
    â€œExcuse me?” Lona said finally.
    â€œWhat’s up?” the girl asked, but she didn’t look up when she said it. She couldn’t be much older than Lona.
    â€œI’m hoping you can help me find some records.”
    â€œYeah. This is kind of the place for that. Were