finally settled on a small, filthy window covered with a curtain on the other side of the room. The window was at least ten feet off the floor. Too high for even the nice man to reach. They needed something to stand on. A chair. A bookshelf.
A metal table.
Christopher rushed over to the bloody table and started moving the instruments quietly to the floor. When he had cleared the table of anything that could fall, he put his shoes back on for traction. He grabbed a few blood-soaked towels and threw them under the legs to cut the noise.
Then, he waited for Jill’s voice to cover his tracks.
“No, Dr. Haskell. It started suddenly. I don’t know what it is.”
Christopher dragged the table painfully across the floor. Moving with each word. Stopping with each silence.
“I don’t think it’s allergies. Not in December.”
Every inch like pulling a tooth.
“Is there something going around?”
The rags left deep, red streaks on the concrete. Christopher pushed the table flush against the wall. His hands making little prints in the blood.
“Flu season? Does that usually come with a rash?”
He rushed over to the nice man, who had managed to get three of the shackles loose.
“Well, thank you, Dr. Haskell. I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Jill said, hanging up the phone.
Christopher could hear Jill walk back to the living room. But the kitchen floor still creaked. The hissing lady was waiting in the kitchen. The nice man desperately hacked at the lock on his ankle with the screwdriver.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered, delirious with pain. “Just leave me here.”
“No!” Christopher whispered.
“You’re invisible in the daytime. You can escape.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
Christopher took the wrist shackle in his bare hands. The heat broke out on his forehead. The power moved through his fingers. Christopher began to split the shackles like breaking a deck of cards for a shuffle. He tore the metal shackle off the nice man’s ankle and dropped it gently to the ground. The nice man was speechless.
“How did you do that? Only she can do that,” the nice man whispered.
“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “Come on.”
He propped the nice man up against the wall. The nice man looked woozy. On the verge of passing out. Christopher splashed some water on the nice man’s face. The water trickled down his filthy neck like a mudslide.
“I can’t stand,” the nice man said.
“Yes, you can. Get up.”
Christopher took the nice man’s hand and pulled him to his feet. The nice man’s knees buckled, but he put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder to steady himself.
With Christopher as a crutch, he limped to the window.
The nice man reached the table. Christopher sprang to his feet and turned. He took the nice man’s hand to help him climb and stand, almost slipping on the slick blood. The nice man opened the window curtain. He saw dozens of mailbox people standing guard around the house. Their strings stretched like demented laundry lines hanging the world out to dry.
“Her guards,” the nice man whispered.
Christopher put his hands together for the nice man’s foot.
“I’m too big,” the nice man said.
“Not for me,” Christopher said.
The nice man put his foot into Christopher’s hands. He looked skeptical. Like he couldn’t believe the little boy could carry his weight. Until Christopher pushed. The nice man inched up the wall and grabbed the windowsill with his fingertips. He used whatever strength he had left to pull himself up. The nice man opened the filthy window and let the fresh air into the basement. He put his chest halfway through the opening and collapsed. Panting like a dog left in a car.
“Get up!” Christopher begged.
Christopher grabbed the nice man’s bloody feet and pushed the rest of his body out of the window with all his might.
Then, Christopher slipped on the bloody table. He reached out, trying to find his footing. But the force was too great. Christopher fell to the ground.
Bringing the metal table down with him.
Crash!
The kitchen floor creaked upstairs. Christopher scrambled to his feet. The table lay upside down like a dead cockroach. There was no way to climb the legs.
“Stay here, David,” the hissing lady said upstairs.
“She’s coming,” the nice man whispered. “You can make it!”
Christopher looked up at the window. Ten feet off the ground. The nice man stretched his body down from the window. Christopher ran. Jumped. Their bloody hands met for a moment, then slipped. Christopher fell to the ground.