I had a vague recollection of sipping water. A brief moment of safety from the fever dreams that plagued me. Vividness of them chilled me to the bone. Of being surrounded by giant monsters from a book I was read from as a child. Of the running, the endless running while being chased by a faceless, shapeless man, fearing he would catch up to me from the pain in my leg. But that simple sip of water, bringing me to the surface, was all I needed to escape the faceless, shapeless man.

I took my time waking up. Feeling the pain, the grogginess in my entire body, the sweat coating my face and legs. It was dark, too dark to make out the time if I was able to find a clock in the room. Although I was covered in sweat, the room was freezing, and I found comfort under the quilt. I felt something heavy on my stomach for a fleeting moment; it was removed as quick as it came. I looked over to see Mathias sleeping on his back, an arm above his head, an arm on his stomach. He was vulnerable. If only I wasn’t handcuffed to the outer part of the headrest, if only I was able to reach his neck…He rolled over at the sound of something buzzing. A dim light filled the room, the phone stopped buzzing as he answered it.

He was silent for a long while, then spoke in whispered French. “«He can’t walk. »” I listened to the one-sided conversation, my breathing as even as I could get it. I closed my eyes, trying my best to feign sleep. “«Yes…I can’t leave because he’ll leave…Yes…Is that a good idea? »” He quit speaking for longer, the tinny voice of the other person on the line floated through the room, his words unable to be made out. “Okay, okay. «I will. Six hours…Wait for me, please. »”

The bed moved, creaked, as he got up. I watched his back in the black walk out of the room. Without his heavy boots, he was silent to an unnerving degree. I spotted the phone sat on the nightstand. There was no way I’d be able to reach it with my hand alone, but I might have been able to with my foot. The only problem was there was a gap between the bed and the nightstand. I didn’t have the confidence to bring the phone over to me without it falling through the gap and alerting Mathias. He stalked back into the room, scratching at his head.

He was either unaware I was awake or pretended not to care while going about his routine. It was the first time I saw more skin than what peeked out of the long sleeves he wore. My eyes had slowly adjusted while he was gone, and while I couldn’t make out anything clearly, I saw what might have been a puckered scar on his back, over his left scapula, before he covered it with a black long-sleeve shirt. There was another puckered scar on the back of his right knee, vanishing from view from him pulling his jeans on. I started to wonder how he got those scars if he had more on his body. He had the physic of a soldier, possibly the training of one too. Each scar would have a story, then.

I closed my eyes to fake sleep, him clunking over to the side of the bed I was on. He told me to wake up. I pretended I couldn’t hear him, only for him to say it once more and press down on the bullet wound. Pain shot through my leg, and I opened my eyes to grab his wrist. He removed his hand from my leg, throwing off the warm quilt. He undid the cuff attach to my wrist, and if it wasn’t for the look in his blue eyes, I would have tried to fight him. They were the eyes of a predator knowing it had cornered its prey. He could strike and rip my head off whenever he wanted.

He treated me like a toddler, helping me dress, tying my boots for me. He asked me about five times if I needed to use the bathroom before he told me to brush my teeth. He stood to my right, hooked an arm around my waist, used his other hand to hold my right wrist over his shoulder. It was awkward with the height difference, but it made limping around much easier without having to put too much pressure on my leg. He brought me to the door before removing himself from me. He put on a heavy jacket and gloves, then he put a heavy jacket, gloves, and a hat on me. We left the cabin, him first to hold my wrists to keep me stable as I hobbled out of the door. It was cold and dark on the small porch, and I wished he would go faster to close and lock the door.

He resumed his position on my right, helping me to the stairs before effortlessly picking me up to descend them. Back on the ground, we shuffled over to my car, and I was loaded into the passenger side, him walking around to settle into the driver side. I looked over at the clock on the dashboard as he ignited the engine. It read two-thirty-eight, and I asked where we were going in the quietest voice I could muster.

“Breakfast,” he said, pulling onto the gravel road. We drove in silence for ten minutes, listening to the tires go over the road, and the irregular, quiet chirping of crickets. It eventually became too much for me to sit there in a heavy, soundless void. I asked if we could, at the very least, listen to the radio. He glanced over at me, taking his time to answer. “No.” He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “Go back to sleep and it won’t bother you.” It was an order, not a recommendation, the way he spoke it.

I settled in, trying to find a comfortable position without inflicting more pain to my leg. I found a position, after much trial and error, and closed my eyes. Mathias stopped suddenly, jolting me awake and sending another sliver of pain through my leg. I checked the clock now that it was suddenly light out. It was close to eight. I didn’t remember falling asleep; I rubbed at my eyes, my nose, forgetting I had the gloves on. The highway surrounded by trees, slowly gave way to something more urban. He had the radio on low, tuned to a station playing alt rock. I had to strain to be able to hear the music. I figured we were back across the border. I put my head against the cold glass window, feeling every bad patch of asphalt we hit in the vibrations.

Two minutes past eight he pulled into an IHOP parking lot. I could try to escape, I realized. Find the one caring soul that would call the police, to hide me until they got there, but it’d never work. Every step without him supporting me made my knee want to give out. The adrenaline might help for the first few feet, but after that, I would crumple, only for him to come collect me. He opened the passenger side door, helped me out and into the restaurant. A few quick words were exchanged with the hostess while I stood awkwardly behind him, head down.

She led us to a back corner table with half a booth. An older man was already sitting in one of the chairs, a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him. I was to sit in the corner of the booth, Mathias next to me, his left hand over the tender wound on my leg. The small warning that if I did anything he didn’t like, he’d turn me into his stress ball. I decided not to speak unless spoken to. I looked at the weathered man before looking at my hands in my lap. Grey hair, and grey eyes with the telling sign of a man who had seen war, a small x-like scar on his cheek.

I listened in to their conversation, still pretending I had no clue what they were discussing in French. “«Matias, »” the other man greeted. “«How are you? »”

“«Monsieur Luis, »” Mathias greeted in turn. “«Good. And you? »”

They both paused as a waiter came by to take our orders. I hadn’t even looked at the menu, my mind more occupied with finding out why we left the cabin, what this breakfast was really for. My hand flinched to open the always sticky menus, but I paused when Mathias ordered for me. Once the waiter left, Luis continued their conversation. “«I have a job for you. »”

“«What is it? »” He asked.

Luis cleared his throat; he moved the mug to take a sip of coffee. “«I need you to find someone. »” There was some shuffling of papers while Mathias asked who. “«The son of…Jean-Claude. »” He paused, my ears perking up at the name of my father. It was likely it wasn’t the same man; the name was quite common. However, the fear grew in the pit of my stomach, connecting the dots of what that would mean if it was my Jean-Claude. “«I can never remember his last name…Sarte…Solé— »”

“«Sardou? »” Mathias helpfully added. The pit in my stomach blossomed into a tree, reaching its way into my throat. I tried not to cough at Luis’ affirmation. “«Not one of the daughters? The son? »”

“«Yes, the son. Yves. »” I repositioned my head, tilting it up enough to see Luis pass a file over to Mathias from the peripherals of my vision. “I don’t have a photo of Yves, but…I have one of Jean-Claude. »”

Mathias opened the folder for a split second, before hiding it under the table when the waiter came with our food. I ate quietly, suddenly starving. It was easier to see what was in the folder with my gaze focused on the food on the plate, instead of on my hands under the table. Mathias opened it again, taking out a glossy, partly burned photo. All that remained of my father’s face was part of his black hair, his lips, and the uniform he wore. “«This isn’t a lot. »”

“«I know. I know, »” he answered.  “«I do know that Yves has black hair and blue eyes. The same as his father. And... And Yves is good at staying hidden. Identity theft. Things like that. »”

Mathias put the photo back in the folder, then perused the other papers inside. He removed his hand from my leg for a fraction of a moment to scratch at his chin. “«Why? And why me? I don’t work in people. »”

Luis smiled; the same kind of smile Mathias gave to me. “«I have my reasons. You owe me money. You work for me until I say so. »” A smaller, folded piece of paper was handed to Mathias. “«I will pay three million once he’s found. You will receive two hundred thousand in twenty installments of ten thousand. The rest goes to your debt. »” He studied the piece of paper for a long while, then let out a sigh. “«Acceptable? »”

“«Yes, »” he clenched his jaw. “«I accept. »”

Luis pointed a finger in my direction. “«This him? »” Mathias nodded. “I want to know: what’s his name? »”

“«He can answer. Once more, in English. »”

Luis let out a small laugh. “«Boy», what’s your name?”

I swallowed the food in my mouth, submitting myself to his gaze. Mathias put a little more pressure in his palm to get me to answer faster. “S-Soren,” I said, keeping my voice quiet, my head down.

“«Nice to meet you», Soren.” My name coming out of his mouth felt even more wrong than when Mathias said it. “How is our Matias treating you?”

I bit the inside of my lip to keep myself from crying out in pain as more pressure was applied to my leg. “G-Good…Sir,” I added for good measure.

“We’ll find a place for you soon,” he said. “Eat your fill, it’s on me today.” I swallowed, tilting my head further down.