Page 6 of The Associate
And then, the present slipped.
The cold tile under his palms shifted in texture, becoming something rough, wooden planks, warmer to the touch, uneven.
The sharp, clean scent of lemon disinfectant thinned, dissolving into something dusty, something sour and sunbaked.
The quiet hum of the office and its muted chatter dissolved completely, replaced by the muffled sound of shouting from another room, the heavy thud of footsteps on hard-packed dirt, the distinct, mournful creak of a heavy chapel door swinging shut.
∞∞∞
15 years before
The bus door slid open with a rough scrape, letting in a sudden gust of dry air that smelled of dust and pine sap. Fifteen-year-old Samuel sat rigid in the back, his hands clenched so tightly around the strap of his backpack that the nylon dug into his palms. His legs felt like dead weight when he tried to swing them out, a strange paralysis holding him in place.
For a long second he just stayed there, staring at the ground outside, a stretch of packed dirt scattered with sharp, pale gravel, trying to will his body into motion.
A volunteer in a faded camp polo shirt tapped the side of the bus with a flat, impatient hand. “Let’s go,” he said, his tone sharp. “Out.”
Samuel stepped out. His sneakers landed unevenly on the loose dirt, the impact jolting up his spine and into his teeth. The sun was a brutal, white glare, bright enough to make his eyes water instantly. He blinked hard, squeezing them shut for a moment, pretending the dampness was only from the heat.
The camp grounds stretched out in front of him like a stark photograph: a cluster of wooden buildings, all identical in their dull, peeling beige paint; a stark chapel with a tall, white cross mounted above the door; a wide, barren field fenced in by a wall of tall, silent pines. A wooden sign hung crookedly from two rusted chains near the entrance, its carved letters stark against the weathered wood:
RESTORATION HILLS
Reclaiming God’s Design
The words made the fine hairs on the back of Samuel’s neck prickle with a cold dread.
Other boys were already gathered near a long row of picnic tables; some with their arms crossed tightly over their chests, some hugging themselves, a few trying and failing to look bored and unaffected. A handful looked about the same age as Samuel; others were older, sixteen or seventeen, their faces already set in hard, unreadable lines. No one spoke.
Volunteers moved among them, clutching clipboards and large plastic bins, calling out names in flat tones, checking off lists, steering boys into place with a firm, impersonal hand on a shoulder or the small of a back.
“Line up,” one counselor barked, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Single file. Eyes front.”
Samuel moved automatically, his muscles responding to the command before his mind could process it, slipping into the line between two boys he didn’t know. The one on his left sniffed quietly, a wet, ragged sound, and wiped his nose with the back of a trembling hand. The boy on his right, hair a mess of wild, blond locks, kept his chin lifted in a show of defiance, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked beneath his skin, as if daring anyone to try something.
Samuel kept his own eyes down, fixed on the scuffed toes of his sneakers.
A volunteer stepped in close beside Samuel, his presence an immediate invasion of space. “Eyes forward,” he instructed, tapping two firm fingers against Samuel’s shoulder blade. “No talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Samuel whispered, the words barely a breath.
The volunteer didn’t react. He had already turned away, repeating the same flat instruction to the boy behind him in a monotonous loop.
Samuel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to mimic the way the other boys were standing: utterly still, completely contained, their postures a mask of submission. His chest felt impossibly tight, the heavy, hot air pressing like a physical weight against his skin, sweat already gathering in a slick patch between his shoulder blades.
Across the yard, a staff member lifted a whistle to his lips and blew.
Every single boy in the line flinched.
“Move to the chapel!” a voice shouted, raw with authority. “Keep the line straight. Keep your hands at your sides. No talking.”
The group began to move as one, a slow, shuffling mass of bodies trudging forward. Samuel followed, his head bowed, his focus narrowed to the uneven dirt path, trying not to stumble.
He wanted to look at the others, to search their faces for a flicker of shared terror.
He wanted to whisper a question, to ask if they were as scared as he was.
He wanted to know if this was all some terrible mistake, if maybe his parents’ car would come roaring down the gravel drive, having changed their minds, deciding he didn’t need to be fixed after all.
