ON THE DRIVE HOME, he was completely silent.
He didn’t say a word to his wife. It was pointless. If she’d ratted him out, he would have been behind bars by now, but he was free and his daughter was locked up. He might never see her again, his little girl with baby powder sprinkled on her head. He believed it all now. The baby powder was indeed fairy dust, and there really was a wolf in the wardrobe with a grandma in its belly who tasted delicious because she knew so many stories. These details cut him like tiny blades.
His wife leaned her head against the window, sobbing as if their daughter were already dead. Only death wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened to her. She’d have to go through intensive brainwashing, and if she ever made it out of that place alive, she would have forgotten him and her mother, the rabbits and the wolf in the wardrobe too. When she got out—if she got out—she wouldn’t be his daughter. And when that moment came, they would continue to sneak into her dreams at night, plant microchips in her brain, and surround her with screens spewing out their messages in sound and video. They’d do everything it took to transform her into a model citizen. Fuck the government! Tears welled up in his eyes and he ground his teeth, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as if he might snap it in two.
His daughter would end up crying all the time. She’d be alone and they certainly wouldn’t let her have a stuffed wolf to cuddle in bed. All she’d see in the coming days would be sterile laboratories, black and red wires, and the President’s projected face. Poked and prodded, her blood, urine, and saliva taken for testing. And all around her there would be doctors, psychologists, and soldiers. Loyal citizens serving their country. Screw the country!
His little girl would call out for her parents again and again. Kicking and screaming every time the screens showed the President’s face. It might take weeks before she realized no one would save her. And only then, perhaps, she’d forget who she was and become what they wanted her to be.
A tear rolled down his cheek. He rubbed his face on his shoulder; he didn’t want to cry in front of his wife, but he was broken. He didn’t want another daughter. Didn’t want one of those government-approved children. Children without imagination. Without stories. Without imaginary friends. A wave of longing tore at him. He was the father of the most wonderful daughter in the world, a child made of metaphors, like a character escaped from a picture book. And now they wanted to ruin her. No one would believe all those things he’d said in the investigation, even though they were true. Nobody believed the truth these days; two plus two didn’t make four, and never would, not unless the government wanted it to. But at least he understood the truth of what he’d said. He hadn’t read those stories to his daughter. She simply knew them. She was both narrator and narrated-to. There was no need for her to invent anything, the stories simply flowed out of her, remembered from a past she hadn’t lived.
And he’d said what he said—not in the old man’s voice, nor Zorba’s or Alice’s or even Pinocchio’s. Everything he’d said had been in his own voice, but their words were still there, distilled into his.
“What are we going to do?” His wife’s voice cracked, marred by sobs.
He remained silent, not because he had no words to offer but because he didn’t want to scare her even more. He’d made up his mind; he would call on the resistance for help. The System was compromised, he knew that now. He himself had outmaneuvered it dozens of times. He’d stolen the books and no one had suspected him. Surely the resistance could do the same for a child. There must be someone who could help him. But until that happened, he had to get rid of the contraband he had in his possession.
He parked in front of the house and rushed inside, heading straight for his bedroom. Flinging the wardrobe doors open, he stuffed the books hidden behind his hanging shirts into bags and boxes. He would clear up the crime scene completely, and they could search his house to their hearts’ content. Grabbing his wife’s car keys, he slunk out the back door, looking around furtively. He heard his wife scream after him, “Where are you going?” But he couldn’t afford a single second to console her. The battle had begun.
“We’re all wooden puppets here,” he muttered before starting the car and taking off.