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discussed. I’ll contact you if I see any issues or we need to deviate.” She nods to me, trussed up like a turkey. “Jacob, I’ll see you later. Please do your best. Much depends upon it.”
    It will be a lot better for me if I don’t do my best, thanks very much. I’ll still try to play dumb and see if it gets through the polygraph tests.
    I tap my feet on the floor, tap tap tap, because they’re all I can move.
    I’m trying to avoid the feeling that I’m in deep trouble.
    *   *   *
    It’s an hour before they even bring me any objects. It takes all that time for polygraph bullshit. Calibration. Detailed, excruciating explanation from Dr. Lennon of what’s going to happen and how it all works. ( I don’t care, take it off. ) Test question after test question after test question, while he stares at the screen and Dr. Milkovich sits in one of the chairs and takes notes, and I tap my feet and try not to swear or sweat or squirm like a five-year-old.
    Is your name Jacob Lukin? Yes.
    Are you eighteen years old? Yes .
    Do you live at 902 Van Buren Street, Herndon, Virginia? Yes .
    It gets old fast.
    Is your mother Abigail Lukin? Yes .
    Is your father major general John Lukin, deceased? I hesitate. His first name isn’t really John; it’s Ivan. He changed it before he joined the air force, because Ivan Lukin sounded too Russian. Still—that’s what’s on the records. Yes .
    Are you working for or have you worked for any agencies of foreign governments? No .
    Even telling the truth, I feel jumpy hooked up to the thing. It’s a lot worse when Dr. Milkovich gets up to bring the objects, and I know I’m going to lie. She brings in a metal box, thin and long like a safe-deposit box, and sets it on the table so it opens away from me. She takes out something in a sealed plastic bag, face dead serious, and slides the bag down.
    It’s a ring. Plain, gold, scuffed. A man’s ring.
    Here we go, problem solved. I can’t do it through plastic, but they don’t know that. I’ll try, fail. Done. I relax.
    She nods at me. “Open it. We want you to hold it in your hand.”
    Crap. I look at the camera—unblinking red eye—and open the bag, let the ring fall into my hand.
    I close my eyes, but I don’t try to tunnel. I frown, grunt. Open my eyes.
    “I told you. I can’t do anything. I don’t even know what you want me to do.”
    Dr. Milkovich just looks at me.
    “It was just a party trick, okay?” My voice sounds high in my ears. “A fake, to impress a girl. My friends fed me the information beforehand.”
    She looks at Dr. Lennon.
    “He’s lying,” he says, matter-of-fact. “It’s all over the place.”
    “Try again, Mr. Lukin,” she says.
    I grit my teeth. I pretend again, don’t do anything. I look up, shrug. If I don’t say anything, they can’t tell I’m lying, right?
    “Lying,” he says.
    “Jacob.” Liesel’s voice blasts from a speaker somewhere on the ceiling. “Do I need to come speak with you? We have an agreement.”
    I stare at the camera. I can’t do it. Not here. If I do it here, on record, they’ll have evidence. Proof. I can’t. It’s too dangerous. It goes against everything Dad ever said.
    “Doctors, you may leave for a moment. I need to speak with Jacob alone.”
    The red light goes off and they leave, not looking at me. I’m still strapped to the chair, stuck. A couple minutes later Liesel comes in, holding a tablet computer. She walks calmly around the table, pulls a chair close to me, and sits. Sets down the tablet, folds her hands on the table, and looks at me. She doesn’t seem surprised, or even pissed. Like she expected this.
    That’s not good.
    “This is sooner than I wanted to have this conversation, Jacob. By not cooperating you’ve forced my hand, before we’ve even started.” She tilts her head, studies me. “What do you think we’re doing here, exactly?”
    I don’t answer.
    She turns my chair, fast, so I’m facing her, knee to knee. She leans in. I