I open one eye, close it quickly against the light streaming through the blinds.
I remember it was night when they took me to the hospital.
It’s daytime now. The next day? The next month?
“Is the sun bothering you?” a woman says.
A moment later the blinds are closed, and the sun is gone.
I open my eyes again. I see the white panels of a hospital drop ceiling above me. I note movement at the foot of the bed. A woman sits across from me, her chair pulled back against the wall so she can watch me.
It’s Mother.
I blink hard, wondering if I’m dreaming.
I try to speak, but my throat is too dry.
“There’s water next to you in the blue cup,” she says.
I reach for it. I am no longer tied down, my movement restricted in any way. The cool water soothes my throat.
“Slowly,” Mother says. “You’ll choke on it.”
I finish the water in five gulps. Refill the cup and drink again.
“You’ve been on quite an adventure,” Mother says.
I rub my eyes. This is not a dream. Mother is right here dressed in slacks and a white blouse, a suit jacket slung casually over the back of her chair.
I sort through the events from the time I walked into the mayor’s mansion, up until the arrival of the FBI, followed by the ambulance driving me to the hospital.
I think of Tanya and Howard, waiting down the street at the baseball field.
Did they get away?
“They are safe,” Mother says, as if she can read my thoughts.
“They?”
“Tanya and Howard. I imagine you’re wondering about them,” Mother says. “After all, you risked everything for them. I’m assuming there was a reason.”
I’m trying to find the right thing to say, searching for my next move.
“No games, Zach. I’m putting my cards on the table. I expect you to do the same.”
“Where are they?” I say.
“They’re alive,” Mother says.
I feel relieved, but I don’t express it to Mother. Instead, I adjust my position so I can see her better. As I move, I feel a pain deep in my chest.
I reach up and explore the area with my fingers. There’s a bandage, under which I feel stitches, tightly closing the wound over my scar.
A sensation passes through me, constricting my chest.
Fear.
“Was I operated on?” I say.
“In a manner of speaking,” Mother says. “A previous procedure was reversed.”
Mother holds up a plastic specimen container. She shakes it. Something rattles against the sides.
“What is it?”
She tosses it to me. I look at the familiar device in the bottom of the container.
“My chip,” I say.
“Our chip, technically. It was on loan to you. We’ve taken back possession.”
“What did you replace it with?”
“Nothing,” she says. “We took out the chip, washed and closed the wound. You’ll still have a scar, but it won’t be any worse than before. You can have a plastic surgeon evaluate it in a few months.”
“I’m confused,” I say. “Why would you take out the chip?”
“For one thing, it had been tampered with.”
I put the specimen container next to the bed.
I sip at my drink. Mother is running this show. I would be wise to slow down, let her lead the conversation, and listen closely.
“Am I mistaken about that?” she says. “The tampering?”
“No.”
“How did you find out about the device?” Mother asks.
The chip’s existence was supposed to be a secret to me. There’s no reason to lie about it now.
“Francisco explained it to me,” I say.
Francisco, the Beta agent, the second of five Program assassins. He had disappeared, and I was sent to complete his mission.
“You met Francisco?” Mother says.
Her tone is relaxed, but she sits up straight in the chair, her posture belying her true feelings.
“He was still alive when I got inside Moore’s compound.”
“You didn’t tell us.”
“There are many things we didn’t tell each other,” I say, touching my chest.
“He was a traitor, wasn’t he?” Mother says.
“Yes.”
I see Mother’s hand clench into a fist.
“And you, Zach. Are you a traitor?”
I consider the question.
“It depends on your definition,” I say.
Mother stands up slowly, slips her suit jacket on.
“Get dressed,” she says. “You’ll find clothes that fit you in the closet.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I want to show you something.”
I don’t know what Mother is up to, but my best move is to go along until I understand better.
I get out of bed, testing the strength in my legs and stretching to activate sore muscles. I’m stronger, my nutrients replenished, my body rested from the trials of the last few days.
“How long have I been here?” I say.
“Two days. We’ve been feeding you intravenously to give your body time to heal.”
I open the closet door. I find jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket laid out on a shelf along with underwear.
Mother turns her back to give me privacy. By doing so, she leaves herself open to attack.
It might be a test; it might be a demonstration of faith.
I have the advantage, but I don’t act on it.
Once I’m dressed, Mother opens the door and steps back, inviting me to walk through ahead of her. The skin on the back of my neck tingles.
I am in danger. I can feel it.
Mother senses my trepidation. She says, “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”
“There are things worse than death,” I say.
“What could be worse?” Mother says.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
I walk through the door.