Free The Omega Theory by Mark Alpert Page B

Michael adjusted his head, trying to get a better view through the chink. Then he heard a metallic click and the room behind him filled with light. When he turned around he saw Tamara.
    Her left hand gripped the pull chain of an overhead light, a naked bulb screwed into a socket on the ceiling. In her right hand she held a rectangular tray. It was dark brown, like the trays at McDonald’s. On the tray were seven packets of Heinz ketchup and a bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips, the two-ounce bag that sold for ninety-nine cents. Also a twelve-ounce can of Sprite. This was Michael’s favorite snack, which David Swift usually prepared for him as a reward after he’d done a Good Thing, such as walking to the corner deli by himself or going three days without a temper tantrum. It was very confusing to see it here, on a tray carried by Tamara in this room with concrete walls. For a moment he assumed that David Swift had prepared the snack, and his heart beat a little faster—was David here? Had he finally arrived to rescue him? But when Michael looked past Tamara he saw no one behind her. The room was empty except for the bare mattress he’d slept on and a large wooden desk.
    Tamara stepped forward, extending the tray toward him. “Dinnertime, Michael. Look, I brought your favorite things.”
    She was standing too close. Michael backed up against the wall and slid to the left to put some distance between them. Tamara wore a desert-camouflage uniform similar to those he’d seen on the soldiers outside. On her left shoulder several loose black threads hung from the fabric of her shirt, as if a patch had been ripped off there. “Come on,” she said. “You like to put the ketchup on the potato chips, right? Exactly two drops of ketchup on each chip? Brother Cyrus said you were very particular about your food.”
    Michael shook his head. Tamara wasn’t his friend. She was his enemy. He turned away from her and stared at the large desk against the opposite wall. “My name is Michael Gupta,” he said. “I live at 562 West One Hundred and Tenth Street in New York City.” This was the message that David Swift had instructed him to memorize in case he got lost. He was supposed to recite it to a police officer, who would then bring him home. “Please don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched because I am autistic. Please contact my guardian, David Swift, at 212-555-3988.”
    Tamara didn’t respond at first. She just stood there. Then she nodded. “Okay, I understand. I won’t touch you.”
    She turned around and went to the desk. It had five drawers, three of which were missing their knobs. Tamara placed the tray on the right end of the desk. On the left end was a computer, a Sun Ultra 27 workstation with a twenty-two-inch monitor. Michael was familiar with this type of computer. The autism center had an Ultra 27 workstation in its recreational therapy room, and he’d spent many hours playing games on it.
    Tamara picked up a metal folding chair that leaned against the wall. She unfolded the chair and placed it in front of the desk. Then she backed away, moving toward the far corner of the room. She pointed at the chair. “There you go, Michael. Sit down and eat your dinner. I’ll stay far away, see?”
    He stared at the bag of potato chips on the tray. He was very hungry. But he didn’t want to do anything that Tamara told him to do. Instead, he decided to repeat the last sentence of his message. “Please contact my guardian, David Swift, at 212-555-3988.”
    Tamara continued to point at the chair. “You haven’t eaten anything in eighteen hours. You must be starving.”
    This, Michael knew, was an exaggeration. He wasn’t starving. A human being could survive for three to six weeks without eating any food. He’d read this fact in The Concise Scientific Encyclopedia, which was a book that David Swift’s wife, Monique Reynolds, had given him for his nineteenth birthday. Michael got confused when people