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even a little light, not even a little. It was all black where he was.
    Oh. They said there was a flashlight. He felt with both hands. Oh. He was wrapped in a blanket. No, more than one blanket. He found the flashlight between the blankets. The switch was hard to push.
    There. Light. He was in a small round place with shiny metal all around him.
    He started to cry again. “Mommy!”
    â€œTake it easy, kid. We’re gonna see you’re okay. Honest. My bro—”
    â€œShut the fuck up, you idiot.”
    â€œAll right. All right.”
    â€œJust dig, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”
    The voices were up above. Oh. There was a round hole, just over Jamie’s stomach. Like a chimney. That’s where the voices came from.
    Noises all around. Shovels and dirt. Dirt was being thrown on the metal thing he was in. A little dirt came down the chimney.
    â€œWatch it,” said one of the men up above.
    â€œSorry, kid.”
    He had thought the long cement room was the worst place in the world. Now he wished he was back there. It had a toilet and a sink and no windows. They had put him in there with blankets and a pillow. And a little fur toy bear. One of the men had given him the bear to play with. Jamie wished he had it now. He had left it in the long cement room.
    Jamie didn’t know how long he’d been in the cement room. He couldn’t even tell night from day, and they’d given him the pills to make him sleep. After they’d given him baloney and cheese and apples.
    The toilet stunk in the long cement room. But he wished he was back there, instead of in this round metal place.
    â€œMommy!”
    Oh. The shovel and dirt sounds had stopped. He didn’t hear the men anymore. He thought he heard wind in the chimney. And the sound of water.
    He lifted his head, but it hit hard on the metal and hurt. He had thought that by lifting his head he might wake up. He might find that he had been having a bad dream, that he really was in his bedroom, after all. Whenever he woke in the night in his bed, he raised his head and looked for the light under the door.
    This time when he raised his head, there was only the shiny light off the metal. He knew it wasn’t a dream. His head hurt bad where he had bumped it. It felt like it was bleeding.
    â€œMom—MY!” he shouted as loudly as he could, so loudly it made his throat more sore. The sound banged back into his ears.
    Jamie did something he hadn’t done since he was real little: He kicked as hard as he could, up and down. Both big toes and both heels hit real hard. Both his toes hurt real bad and he screamed louder than ever. The sound banged back into his ears.
    His toes hurt even worse than when he stubbed them on his dresser at home. He couldn’t rub them.
    â€œMom—MY!”
    It was a long time before his toes stopped hurting. When they did, they felt cold.
    A long time later, Jamie was too tired to cry anymore. His eyes felt big and sore and his cheeks all wet and puffy. He cried harder than when he was real little and heard his mother and father fighting real bad at night. His throat was sore from crying and screaming, sore because he had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was all full up.
    Jamie started to cry again but made himself stop. He made fists and banged down as hard as he could.
    He felt something else. Something crinkly, like waxed paper. There was something mushy in his hand. Bread. Wet bread.
    He reached down farther. Something hard and round, cold. Wet. A bottle.
    Bread and water.

Eight
    Will finished talking to the publisher and hung up, disgusted. He dreaded the next call he would make, but there was no putting it off.
    â€œGood morning,” his wife said. “How’s it going? Are you coming home soon?”
    â€œNot as soon as I’d like.” He told her what Lyle Glanford had said, and the demands he had conveyed without stating them: that it would be