“Darrel,” Jean-Claude butts in. “Talk to me. What do you see?”
“I see… a vast landscape,” I begin. “A golden light bathing everything in a warm glow.”
The group around me leans in closer, their eyes wide with excitement. Yvonne places her hand on my shoulder, and beams with pride. I suppose she believes that her efforts have opened me up to whatever it is they’re hoping for.
“In the distance, I see an old bridge over a brook,” I continue, my voice gaining confidence.
Jean-Claude’s eyes narrow slightly. Yvonne’s grip on my shoulder tightens. Lana and Bertrand are holding their breaths.
“It’s been there for at least 300 years,” I say.
Suddenly, I know what I’m seeing in my hallucination. It’s one of the bridges in the public area of the royal park in Pombrio. When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time around, on and under that bridge with my buddies. It was our secret place—our favorite spot to play, plot mischief, and tell each other dumb jokes that we found hilarious.
“I’m lying underneath the bridge, where it’s dry and grassy,” I say. “And I’m listening to the water.”
Jean-Claude’s face betrays a hint of skepticism, but Yvonne’s eyes shine with hope.
She squeezes my shoulder, urging me to continue. “Where is that bridge?”
“In the royal park.”
The four of them bombard me with questions, “Which royal park? Where? In what country? What city?”
Am I going to tell them?
Will Yvonne’s hypnosis and the drug override a lifetime of training that every Evorian receives in the art of being circumspect about our country? How far gone am I in that moment?
Not far enough, as it turns out.On Stella’s screen, I sit up sharply, and look around me, visibly disoriented. My eyes begin to regain their focus. I’m waking up.
What will happen when I realize I’m stark naked?
Why can’t I remember it? Is it because Yvonne had programmed me to forget the entire session?
On the screen, Jean-Claude stabs me with another syringe before I’m fully awake. My eyes glaze over. As quickly as they can, they put my kilt and T-shirt back on. Once I’m dressed and asleep, they cover me with the double blanket, pack up their stuff and head out, swearing under their breaths.
Stella pauses the recording, but she doesn’t look at me or say anything. With her eyes downcast and her face aflame, she appears so uncomfortable that I take pity on her.
I diffuse the awkwardness with a joke and say the first thing that comes to mind, “You have my sympathy, kid! So much to be shocked about in that video. In your shoes, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
The look in her eyes when she finally lifts them is utterly miserable. I don’t think my joke worked. In fact, it may have backfired.
I go for candidness. “You should free me and then move as far away from that bunch as you can.”
“I’m no better than them,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m engaged to be married.”
“What?” Once my brain has processed the outlandish bit of info, I say, “Well, um, congrats.”
“His name is Philippe Baud. He’s Lana and Bertrand’s son.”
“Ew.”
She ignores my scoff. “There’s that, and there’s your precarious situation, and all I can think of is… is…” She lifts her eyes to the ceiling like she’s exasperated with herself.
“What?”
