Page 8 of The Associate
His gaze swept the room once more and seemed to land directly on Samuel for a single, paralyzing beat too long, though Sam couldn’t tell whether it was intentional or just a trick of his own hyper-vigilance.
Either way, his entire body went rigid, every muscle locking in place.
The sermon ended with a collective prayer the boys were expected to recite aloud. Half of them stumbled through the unfamiliar words, their voices thin and hesitant. The others merely mouthed the syllables without sound. Samuel whispered them as quietly as he could, the words ash in his mouth, trying to make himself invisible.
When the director finally dismissed them, no one stood until a counselor at the front gave a sharp, verbal order.
Samuel rose with the group, his legs feeling unsteady and foreign beneath him, his head buzzing with a static hum.
The walls of the chapel seemed to press inward, closer than before.
The air felt thicker, harder to pull into his lungs.
The fear settled, low, heavy, and solid in the pit of his stomach, like something cold and metallic taking root.
The boys were herded out of the chapel and into a long, low building that smelled sharply of sweat, harsh pine-scented cleaner, and the damp, fungal odor of old plywood.
Samuel followed the silent line down a narrow, dimly lit hallway that funneled them into a stark sorting room. Several metal folding tables lined the walls, their surfaces stacked with personal belongings that looked starkly out of place; smartphones, leather wallets, tangled charger cords, expensive watches, spiral-bound notebooks, a few folded shirts neatly tied together with rough twine.
“Line up,” a counselor instructed, his voice devoid of inflection. “Hands at your sides. Face forward.”
Samuel stepped into place behind a lanky boy with a spray of freckles across his neck. The boy’s shoulders twitched in a single, involuntary spasm before he forced them back into a rigid stillness. Another counselor paced slowly along the line, his eyes scanning each of them with a cold, clinical detachment, as if assessing for defects in a product shipment.
“When you step forward,” a volunteer announced, his voice flat, “you will empty your pockets and hand over all personal items. Everything goes in the bin. There are no exceptions.”
One by one, the boys obeyed. Phones were surrendered; some dropped into the bin with a clatter of resent, some placed delicately, almost reverently, as if they were the last fragile link to a world outside these walls. Wallets followed, then beaded bracelets, class rings, headphone cords, and carefully scribbled notes. A few boys hesitated, their hands hovering, but only until a counselor took a single step closer.
Samuel’s own fingers clutched the strap of his backpack tighter, the nylon digging into his palm.
When it was his turn, he stepped up to the table and set his phone down carefully. The cracked screen caught a sliver of dusty sunlight from a high window and glared back at him. His favorite book joined it soon after. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out the small, carefully folded photograph he’d brought with him; just him and his brother, arms slung around each other's shoulders in front of their house, both squinting into the sun on a day that felt a lifetime ago.
He hesitated.
It was only for a second. A fleeting moment of rebellion.
But it was enough for the counselor standing at the end of the table to notice. The man took two swift steps over, his palm already extended, waiting.
“That too,” he said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.
Samuel’s fingers curled slightly, instinctively, around the worn edges of the photo. “It’s just…”
“You won’t need any of this here,” the counselor interrupted, and he plucked the photograph straight from Samuel’s grasp, not giving him the chance to finish his plea.
Samuel’s breath hitched in his throat, a sharp, painful catch.
The counselor turned away and dropped the folded paper into the bin without even looking at it. The photograph bent at the corner where it hit the hard plastic edge of a discarded phone.
Samuel’s voice came out thin and reedy. “Okay.”
“Step aside,” the counselor said, already turning his attention to the next boy in line, his duty discharged.
Samuel stepped back and stood exactly where he was directed. His hands felt unnaturally light and useless, his chest so tight it felt as if his ribs were constricting with each shallow breath. The room seemed to grow warmer all of a sudden, the air heavy and thick, as if the wooden walls were actively pressing in closer.
∞∞∞
Present
The memory snapped apart with a violent, internal jolt, leaving Samuel gripping the cold, porcelain sink in the men’s bathroom as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The room tilted and swayed for a dizzying second before the world settled back into its sharp, lines, brutally bright and sterile under the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror; his face pale and waxy, skin pulled tight around his mouth, his eyes wide and glassy.
