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I am writing from inside my camouflaged tent on national forest land surrounding Tommy’s settlement. The tent is beneath a large oak tree I have rigged with climbing rope and a sling seat that gives me a line of sight to everything transpiring in the community that is visible from the outside.
I stripped away some leaves and installed a parabolic microphone I can aim remotely, allowing me to pick up fragments of conversation. I also have two cameras with zoom lenses—one with night vision—that I can operate and monitor from within the tent, but they do not see as much as I can with the Zeiss spotting scope when I clamp it to a branch.
This is the best I can do to surveil a radio-silent community. It is very much like being an anthropologist observing a tribe from a hidden distance, yet I do not learn as much as I want to. Nevertheless, it is summer, so people are outside frequently, and I can get eyes and ears on Tommy many times a day, which always gives me a visceral thrill. Whenever he appears on the scene, he seems to light up everything around with significance.
I have also discovered that Tommy has a treehouse in the forest at the legal edge of the settlement property. The treehouse is beautifully constructed, and no doubt it is his own work and expressive of his essence.
I mounted a well-disguised camera and microphone on a tree in the nearby national forest to surveil his arboreal sanctuary. Even if he found my setup, it is an off-the-shelf trail cam identical to those the Forest Service uses to monitor wildlife, though it is set up higher than a trail cam would be unless it were there to observe avian life.
A few times, I have seen Tommy sitting on the treehouse’s small deck, gazing into the woods as though he is searching for something. Given how tuned in he is, I think it is quite possible that he senses a new presence in his life, a potential ally. As Rumi says, what you seek is seeking you. Of course, I realize that many a stalker might delude themselves with the same thought. But it is unheard of for a stalker to have intentions as beneficent as mine. I have so much to offer Tommy, and given the chance, I am sure he will come to realize that.
All my devices can be recharged from my electric vehicle, which is parked under camouflaged netting on an unused, overgrown dirt road to nowhere. The vehicle is packed with freeze-dried food and other supplies sufficient for me to maintain my post for weeks if necessary.
I am thoroughly enjoying my setup as I have been meaning to learn how to operate in the wilderness for years. Of course, I am disgusted by the dirt and bugs that come with the territory. Fortunately, I have a portable shower gadget and take two showers a day, but never feel quite as clean as I want to.
Thanks to a satellite phone, I have all the connectivity I need to continue my financial transactions. I can also keep an eye on my home base, some three hundred and twenty kilometers away, which, as you might expect, is equipped with motion-sensing cameras within and without.
What I do not have access to, unfortunately, is what is going on inside Tommy’s mind. I probably would if he were using devices, but these people emit no electronic signals whatsoever.
Despite these limitations, I have made some significant observations. Someone else is lurking about this national forest. I have observed him several times—an unkempt, suspicious-looking individual with disgustingly greasy hair. He has a battered pickup truck with Maine plates, wears camouflage, and carries a scoped rifle slung across his shoulder—a military-style semiautomatic, as best I can determine at this distance, likely an AR variant, which is more firepower than one needs to hunt deer. He may be a hunter, but it is summer, no hunting season is open, so he is probably a poacher.
He appears to be a dangerous vagrant, perhaps ex-military, but he will not come upon me undetected, as I have motion sensors monitoring the perimeter of my campsite, and I am never without weapons. I have trained extensively at gun ranges. Not that I want the risk of neutralizing a vagrant, of course, but I am prepared for all contingencies. Of any anomalous physical abilities I have, deadly aim is chief among them, as verified by the overlapping holes in the A-zone of my target sheets after a range session.
And, speaking of anomalous physical abilities—Tommy. This is, by far, the most interesting product of all my surveillance efforts. On three occasions, I have observed Tommy working on manual tasks with blurred motion speed. He is always alone during these episodes and in a place where no one in his community can observe him.
In one case, he slowed when someone began walking in his direction, though the approaching person was outside his line of sight. He must be able to detect their approach with some sense other than vision. This adds to my impression that he senses he has an ally watching over him.
My observations of Tommy working with anomalous speed were made with the Zeiss spotting scope, which unfortunately does not record video, but I know what I saw—unmistakable evidence that Tommy is a true anomaly.
This boy is the most valuable asset I have ever tracked, and I am determined to do whatever I can to form an alliance, but the right opportunity has yet to appear.
The move I could make, approaching Tommy and Matthew at the regularly scheduled farmer’s market to inquire about live-in carpentry work, is too risky. There could be a quick rebuff, and I would be disclosing myself as an interested party. Tommy would recognize me from our earlier contact and might realize my intentions were about more than carpentry.
I also do not know what exactly Tommy read in me during our brief but intense eye contact on the street. He was undoubtedly aware of the significance of the moment, and there was no fear or revulsion, but could he have picked up desire? Even people who are not empaths can detect sexual interest. Contriving another contact could make me seem like a stalker. Obviously, I am stalking him, but my purposes transcend mere physical infatuation.
I have made a number of other general but highly significant observations about Tommy. He has an admirable work ethic and does everything with grace and efficiency, which is certainly a good recommendation to a German like myself. When not working in the carpentry shop, he is busy helping out with everything else. Numerous times I have seen people call on him for help, and he always cheerfully obliges.
Tommy greets everybody with a hug, which bothers me for a few reasons. First is that it shows how deeply he feels connected to the ordinary folk populating this rustic little world. It will take considerable persuasion to help him realize this community is trapping him in collective hippie mediocrity, and that he would be far better off with me.
Second, Tommy’s tendency to hug people is disturbingly dissimilar to how I interact. I abhor bodily contact with others, though I would make an exception for just the right sexual opportunity, something I have yet to experience. I am disgusted when people at stores or busy streets encroach on my physical space. I have learned to deal with space-invading American informality, but if people want to even fist bump with me, I find it highly distasteful. Tommy appears to hug everyone he encounters, and they all smile and seem to enjoy it, which arouses jealousy, a dangerous emotion. It is an aspect of him that makes me uncomfortable, and I do not like him giving himself away so freely.
I realize it is arguably irrational, but I do feel possessive about Tommy. He is, after all, my discovery—obviously, no one else recognizes how anomalous he is. These hippies are selfishly trapping him in a lesser destiny, while I seek to free him to achieve the greater destiny he deserves with me. Yes, my means may be unconventional, but so are Tommy and I, and objective evaluation indicates that my aim is necessary and ethical. Abandoning him to these people would be a failure of courage on my part, and I would be passively guilty of allowing him to be further harmed.
When I observe Tommy by himself, he seems quite different from when he is with others. His ever-friendly smile is replaced by a serious demeanor, and he seems truly alone and perhaps troubled. He is apparently stressed by the need to keep his anomalous aspects hidden from the others.
Yesterday, I observed him loading heavy-looking sacks of fertilizer or feed or something onto the back of a pickup truck. It was oppressively hot and humid, so he took his shirt off. His face has the slight softness one expects of a fifteen-year-old, but the body revealed has perfect muscle definition, an eight-pack of abdominal muscles, and taut sinews across his chest as he worked.
His muscle definition surpasses what I have achieved through my intense workouts with free weights and machines. I doubt there is any gym in this primitive settlement, so Tommy’s athleticism must be the result of genetics combined with all the manual labor he does. To be fair, if I were obliged to do farm work all day, I would no doubt equal Tommy in this, but I cannot spend the whole day working on my physique to the neglect of everything else. And now, out in the woods without access to even an inadequate hotel gym, I am certainly losing muscle tone.
I must admit to a sharp spike of savage desire when I first saw him shirtless. For a moment, I became insanely infatuated, like a mindless teenager rabid with hormones, as I saw him all muscley and glistening with sweat. The intensity, if I am honest, was frightening, even humiliating, as if I had become a panting cartoon animal with lolling tongue and eyes popping out of its skull like the Tex Avery Wolf gawking at Red Hot Riding Hood in the surreal 1943 animated sequence. It was like the Pink Floyd title, A Momentary Lapse of Reason—pleasure, pain, rage, fear, greed ignited like a mix of volatile accelerants. Dangerous. Such intensity of feelings can render one into a fiend and must be kept under tight control and under the supervision of rationality and strategic thinking.
Viewed from a perspective of detached aesthetics, Tommy is simply the most exquisite physical specimen I have ever seen. I had thought his beauty was mainly in his angelic face and graceful, slender form, but I did not anticipate the athletic perfection of his body. I know hyper-sensitive Americans might accuse me of “objectifying” him, but as I have pointed out, physical beauty is by no means sufficient to attract my attention.
Nevertheless, I must take into account the heightening of my desire because it strains against my patience to observe and wait for the right opportunity.
Tommy is my discovery, and I do not want his body to be seen by others who might desire him as I do. I have become understandably jealous of all the people in his community who can walk up to him, receive hugs, and command him to do anything they task him with.
Obviously, I want to be the one Tommy hugs and who commands him. I am the only one actually looking out for this boy’s welfare while these people take him for granted as their property without realizing what an incredibly valuable asset they are wasting on all these mundane labors. This tragic waste cannot stand. Tommy will inevitably remain trapped in this woodsy enclave unless I can find a way to liberate him.
The opportunity came, but in a form far more dangerous and dramatic than I could ever have imagined . . .
I am startled awake by the sound of distant gunfire. None of my proximity alarms have been triggered, so my site is not being invaded.
I turn on my screens to get a view from every camera. Muzzle flashes in the settlement. There appears to be only one shooter, and he is moving quickly from cabin to cabin.
No time to assess risk—I must protect Tommy.
I race to don full-body night camo, rack my Sig Sauer, secure it in its holster, and switch on my night-vision headgear. I am out of the tent in two minutes, moving swiftly and stealthily toward Tommy’s treehouse, where he sleeps every night.
Primordial instincts in the form of flashes of telepathic intuition take over, tuning into the shooter’s mind and intentions. He is the vagrant with the rifle, and he is no professional, just an insane rampage shooter who takes pleasure in killing. Though he is hundreds of meters away, I am so tuned into him I can feel the heat of his acrid sweat and hammering pulse. He knows this ground, and having eliminated the whole community, he is advancing toward the treehouse driven by his main aim—a ferocious desire to rape Tommy. This fills me with murderous rage, but I suppress it. I need to be cold and efficient to eliminate the threat.
A screen strapped to my forearm allows me to continue monitoring the cameras. The infrared picks up the killer as a blotch of red and orange moving toward Tommy. I sprint to get there before him and hide in the woods behind the treehouse. I turn off my screens to make myself undetectable in the shadows.
My night vision is picking him out in the darkness, so I know exactly where he will emerge.
Now that I am in position, I draw my Sig Sauer P320 X-Five Legion, fitted with an IR-capable Steiner DBAL—a dual-beam aiming laser. With thumb and forefinger I pinch the slide’s front serrations and ease it back a few millimeters—a glint of chambered brass—then let it slip silently back into battery. I assume the classic Weaver shooting stance. The infrared beam, invisible to the naked eye, blazes bright in my night-vision headset, painting my aim across the darkness.
Just before he emerges from the path, there is a dangerous complication.
The hatch beneath the treehouse creaks open, and Tommy comes down the rope ladder, putting himself between me and the killer.
Halfway down, Tommy jumps and lands like a cat, crouched low.
Time slows as I recognize that the moment to take the kill shot is while Tommy is low to the ground. My IR beam centers on the killer’s forehead, a bright point only I can see.
Every split second is a vivid frame in my mind.
I perceive the exact moment he senses me—the hunter’s certainty curdling into prey-terror—and his mouth drops open in shock the instant before I pull the trigger and take him down with one perfect shot.
I step out from my hidden spot, and Tommy, who is still crouched and ready to spring away, instantly swivels in my direction and looks at me as if I am something inhuman.
Then I realize what he sees—a faceless creature in night-vision goggles—so I remove my headgear. He blinks, recognizing me from our earlier encounter in Burlington.
We are both in a state of adrenaline-fueled primordial awareness. Tommy realizes I am his protector, and our alliance forms—the primal bond of combat soldiers in mortal danger.
I come toward him, and he stands up straight. His eyes are dilated by shock and darkness, but they are also hyper-alert and tuned in.
I need him to escape with me, but he is standing there almost naked in his underwear, an electrifying sight.
I decide to inject a bit of humor to calm things down, so I affect a deep Austrian accent and say, “Come vit me if you vant to live.”
I can tell he recognizes the line, but he is not in a state to find anything funny.
“We need to vacate this scene as quickly as possible,” I add in unaccented English.
“But someone might still be alive down there,” he says.
“You know they aren’t,” I reply firmly.
A flicker of horror and then a look of intelligent acknowledgment from Tommy.
“We need to leave here, or we’ll both lose our freedom. If you stay, you’ll end up in some horrible foster home. I’m here to protect you and take you to safety,” I add in a commanding tone.
I see rapid assessment in Tommy’s eyes. I gesture toward the treehouse, realizing he cannot travel in such a state of undress.
“Go back up there and get some clothes, shoes, and anything essential as quickly as possible. I will stand guard down here.”
Tommy nods and, with admirable speed and efficiency, carries out my instructions.
My mind is working at lightning speed, and it is mutual—we are linked in primal survival mode, working as a team, and Tommy’s gift for speed is enhancing my own.
In the two minutes it takes Tommy to dress and pack, my mind organizes an escape plan. I can abandon the cameras, proximity detectors, and parabolic microphone as I had the foresight to wear gloves when I installed those and purchased everything via untraceable means. Investigators will assume they had been installed by the killer. But my tent and its contents are covered with my DNA and fingerprints and must be packed out. I organize the packing step-by-step in my mind, including delegating part of the labor to Tommy.
As soon as my plan is complete, Tommy comes down the rope ladder fully dressed and with a knapsack on his back.
“This way,” I say, and we run through the woods to my campsite.
I throw everything out of my camouflaged dome tent and command Tommy, “Break down this tent for me.”
He nods and sets to work.
I jam everything else into my large backpack, and Tommy, all his emotions shut off except survival urgency, works with dazzling speed, stowing the tent neatly in its stuff sack within a couple of minutes.
Packs back on, we race toward my Porsche. I lead the way, and Tommy follows.
I yank the camo netting off and use my remote to open the doors and trunk. In seconds, our packs are stowed, and we are inside the sleek, high-performance vehicle.
“Put your seatbelt on,” I tell Tommy, but he is already reaching for it.
I put on my night-vision headgear so we can travel without headlights for our immediate escape.
Tommy is startled by the silent acceleration of the powerful electric motors, which pleases me. He had grown up with old gas and diesel pickup trucks and is getting his first exposure to cutting-edge technology.
For the first time, I become conscious of sweat beneath my night camo, and my heartbeat is like a machine gun firing at an estimated 140 BPM. My finger stabs at the aircon button to cool down.
Once we make it to asphalt, I take off the night vision, and our adrenaline-fueled action mode ratchets down.
I flick on speed-limit-assist to ensure I never exceed posted limits, intending to meticulously obey every traffic rule during the nearly three-hundred-kilometer drive to my home base. We are still in a risky zone because any police pull-over will be disastrous until I can create a new identity for Tommy as an eighteen-year-old with ID to match.
Tommy has the presence of mind to remain completely silent, allowing me to focus on driving until we merge with interstate traffic. Now that the need for him to take survival action is gone, I can feel the trauma of what he has just experienced beginning to catch up to him. So far, he is containing it, probably because he is evaluating whether I am a threat.
The quiet time gives me a chance to plan what I will say once Tommy asks the inevitable questions. Intuitively, I sense it will be better to let him speak first to ensure his mind is settled.
I sense his wariness as his dilated green eyes turn toward me, summoning his will to speak. So far, he has given mostly wordless acknowledgments. I recognize the nature of his hesitation. Once he speaks, the situation will become real in a different way. It will threaten his emotional dissociation, and that will be too overwhelming to deal with in the presence of an anomalous stranger.
Tommy takes a deep breath and speaks in a quiet but clear voice. It is the first time I have heard him speak close-up, his voice as mellifluous and lovely as his form.
“Thank you for saving my life. My name is Tommy . . . Who are you?” I sense what is beneath his words. What he is really asking is not my name, but what are you? And there is detectable fear behind the question. He was raised in a community devoted to nonviolence, and he has just seen me kill a man.
It occurs to me suddenly, a new part of my identity—I am now a killer.
I want to reassure Tommy and realize I must stay as close to the truth as possible without revealing everything. I have already planned my words.
“My name is Max,” I reply, “and like you, I am an unusual person. I recognized you as another highly exceptional person from the first moment I saw you outside that store in Burlington.”
I give him a couple of moments to absorb this. But then I make the mistake of stretching the truth.
“I sensed you were in some sort of danger, so I decided to camp out in the national forest land to keep an eye on your settlement in case you needed help.”
Tommy’s wariness intensifies. He senses a degree of falsehood.
“Of course, that is not the whole story, but there will be time to tell you more once we have reached safety.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe, and off the grid. My home base, which is,” I glance at my GPS screen, “two hundred and eighty-two kilometers . . .” I make a quick mental conversion to imperial. “Approximately one hundred and seventy-five miles from here.”
He makes no response. As the silence stretches, a terrible strain mounts in Tommy. He is losing his struggle to contain his emotions. I have never had such a struggle, but I sense Tommy’s whole body shifting, and it is both muscular and metabolic. It must be a mirror-neuron or psychic-attunement effect because I experience a surge of emotion . . . more emotion than I have ever felt in my life. I am not sure how else to describe it except as an intense sympathy for him. He seems so young and vulnerable and he is . . . suffering.
In a gentle voice, I tell him to look in the back seat for a couple of water bottles. He does, and I try to think of an appropriately consoling remark. The best I can come up with is a line I heard multiple times at the funeral of my Uncle Hans. Tommy passes me a water bottle. His hands are shaking.
“I am . . . sorry for your loss,” I hear myself say. The words trigger something in Tommy, permission for him to release the emotion he is straining to hold back. The floodgate opens, his head drops, and he begins sobbing convulsively. He bends over to hide his face behind his long, golden hair.
I have never been so physically close to someone feeling such a strong emotion. Never having grieved for anyone, I find this an alien perception. Of course, I have seen videos of people in war zones crying out in grief as a family member is discovered in the rubble, but those were recordings of faraway events, seen through a screen. Tommy’s grief is happening in real time, right next to me.
As cold and annoying as they are, if my parents were killed, I think I would recognize it as a significant moment. I would probably take the day off to decompress or something, but then I would be over it. If someone is dead, they are dead, so what is the point in overreacting? It is not going to change anything.
Obviously, Tommy is not like me. I perceive the intensity of his grief as a bodily sensation, like a fever rising up all around him. I fix my eyes on the road to keep the force of his emotion from overwhelming me. His whole body is convulsing with sorrow, and it is so raw, undisguised, and agonizing. I have never witnessed anything like it.
I do not want to intrude on his acutely vulnerable state, so there is no action to take except to continue driving silently. In films, I have seen people put a hand on the back of someone suffering such intense grief, but I am a stranger, unaccustomed to such gestures, and this is not the time to violate his physical space. I have no experience saying anything sympathetic to anyone, so any stock lines I know to such effect will ring false. And nothing I could say will change the horrific reality he is grieving over. I suppose a physician would offer him a sedative, but all I have is water and energy drinks.
The wheels in my mind stop spinning. This is not something I can analyze from a distance. Tommy is in a state of emotional agony, and there is no one to help him except me, but I have no idea what to do other than to be a silent witness.
And I must admit the truth—I am in a state of shock myself. We are linked in a primordial, telepathic bond, and the intensity of his emotion disorients me. I am startled to find my eyes tearing up, as though I were grieving too.
It must be a mirror-neuron effect. I am not quite myself anymore because Tommy’s energy is spilling into mine. I had always viewed the world through a kind of scrolling data heads-up display, but these new sensations shatter my ability to analyze this phenomenon from a distance.
The convulsive sobbing slows, and Tommy raises himself back up.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll calm down in a minute.”
He leans back in his seat, and I glance at him. He tearfully gazes up toward the night sky and . . . it is like his whole being is exposed in his eyes. I feel a surge of sympathy for him that is like a strange electricity running through me. The effect is so intense it almost triggers a circuit breaker in my mind, a reflexive dissociative mechanism to protect me from disorientation . . . and yet, part of me wants the intimacy of sharing Tommy’s feelings. I search for anything I can offer.
“Maybe you should drink some water,” I say.
Tommy nods and opens his water bottle.
It was the right thing to say. He does not need a stranger who does not understand what he is feeling intruding on his private experience, so I am being respectful and appropriate, and he needs me to direct him.
“If you open the glove box, you will find tissues.”
Tommy follows my suggestion, confirming my earlier observation. He does need me to tell him what to do, so I am actually helping him by taking charge.
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m sorry for my . . . for my outburst. I’m going to be calm now.”
“Tommy, there’s no need to apologize, your emotions are . . . appropriate to the terrible situation you’ve just lived through.”
“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you again for saving my life. I’m going to be calm now. I promise.”
“Take your time. Do you need something? Food, a restroom break, or anything?”
“No, I’m fine, but thank you for asking.”
We drive on in silence, letting things settle. My whole sense of myself is shifting and forming a new identity. I am now a proven warrior, a killer, but I am also Tommy’s protector, and I feel pride and warmth as I realize this.
There is a silent rapport between us. The sympathy presents as less of an electricity now and more of a steady glow emanating from my upper abdomen.
I have underestimated how I would be affected by an alliance with Tommy. I had rehearsed opening conversational ploys, imagining a complex and tense negotiation where I would need to have an answer for everything to persuade him to leave his life behind and join forces with me. But all my rehearsals of how that would work are now irrelevant.
Obviously, they are irrelevant since the life he once had is gone without any intervention on my part, but it is much more than that. In all my projections of how I would conduct myself, I was my usual, calculating self. I had not prepared to have a telepathic bond with an empath.
I am disoriented by the strange sensations his emotions evoke in me. And yet, by remaining outwardly calm and in control of the situation, I am helping him.
He is changing me, but not by any conscious effort—it is like his nature is adapting me to his needs, the way a cat’s purr can entrain your rhythm and force you to relax.
As I drive, I feel every alteration in Tommy’s state without even looking at him. I sense him composing himself to speak, and a moment later, he does.
“When I first saw you at the store, and our eyes met, I felt you were on a mission of some sort, like you’d been sent to find me.”
Tommy turns to look at me, but I keep my eyes on the road. It will be too distracting to meet his gaze now. I feel him gently but warily studying me.
“Are you on a mission? Were you—looking for me?”
“Yes. But I wasn’t specifically looking for you, not until I found you, that is. I was looking for another anomalous person like myself.”
“I’m sorry, I think I know what anomalous means, but I’m not sure what you mean by another anomalous person like yourself.”
“I mean someone highly unusual, exceptional. Someone aware of things others aren’t, a new human type. I’ve encountered one other such person, but it was at an airport, and there was no way to make contact. From the first moment I saw you, I sensed you were as anomalous as I am, but in highly dissimilar ways. And I knew it would be important to . . . reach out.”
“Did you actually sense I was in danger?” Tommy asks.
My pulse quickens as Tommy reads me in his acutely observant way, his truth sense cornering me. He detected falsehood when I made that claim.
I need to own up to that in some way, but truthfulness is just not the way I operate. As you see in this journal, I am certainly honest with myself, but to be forced into truthfulness with another feels wrong, a relinquishing of control. My mind races to find a workaround under Tommy’s silent scrutiny. I feel the acuteness of his perception in my whole body and realize that any degree of falsity will be detected and endanger our alliance. And every moment of further hesitation only lowers my credibility. My only option is selective truthfulness.
“No, not in the sense of what happened tonight. I sensed you were in a general danger of being isolated by your anomalous qualities, and thought reaching out would be . . . helpful.”
My reply is skillful, but Tommy senses the evasion and realizes I am not giving the whole truth.
“I see,” says Tommy, studying me. “So, your mission was to find someone . . . unusual?”
“Yes. I wanted to find another anomalous person like myself—” I hesitate, realizing I am repeating myself. Continued truthfulness in that direction will be risky, so I evade to prevent falsity. “When I turned eighteen, just a couple of months ago, I set off on my mission. I had already developed independent means—”
“Independent means? You mean like—money?”
“Yes, exactly, money, lots of money by working crypto and stock markets. Money is the way to freedom. With money I can obtain anything—like this vehicle. And I can show you how to obtain more money than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
I immediately regret my last statement as Tommy’s wariness sharpens. My words have landed poorly, and his feelings alter mine. I feel gross, like a pervert caught luring a child into a van with candy.
I scramble to think of something to say, but I am confused about what offended him, so all I can do is admit my perplexity.
“Don’t you want money?”
Tommy considers, but I am at a loss to understand why. It is like I have asked him if he wants to keep breathing, and he is not sure.
“I was brought up not to value money as an end in itself, just as something necessary to trade for needed supplies. I know it’s not the way most people live, but in our community, income was put into a shared fund used for community needs, and anything extra was divided up equally, so we’d all have some pocket money when we went into town.
“I’ve never lacked food, shelter, clothes, or anything I needed, so I guess I’m naïve. We were getting by, so I never gave money much thought. But I can see why you’d want a really cool car like this. And now . . .”
I sense Tommy straining to contain his emotion.
“I guess now I will have to start thinking about money.”
“Well, don’t worry about it, Tommy, I can provide everything you need, including money.”
“But that doesn’t seem right,” he replies. “Since I was a child, I’ve always worked to help my community. I made woodcrafts and essential oils, helped grow our food and tend animals, and did any kind of work that needed doing, so I didn’t feel bad about getting my share.
“If you’re going to help me out,” Tommy continues, “I want to work in exchange. We’re going to your house—I can do housework, cooking, cleaning, and carpentry. I can grow vegetables and other crops if you have land. I’m a good worker, and I wouldn’t want to be a . . .” Tommy searches for a word, “a freeloader. And besides . . .” Tommy takes a deep breath.
“I owe you my life. You deserve infinite work from me.”
His words of gratitude fill me with an unfamiliar warmth.
“OK, well, that’s great,” I reply. “I can always use help, and you obviously have many useful skills.”
Tommy seems satisfied with my answer.
“So, your mission was to find another anomalous person? But then what?” His question throws me off balance.
“Then . . . I would . . . try to form an alliance with them.”
“An alliance? You mean like being friends with them?”
“Right.”
“And . . . is that the whole mission, or is there more?”
“Well, finding another anomalous person and forming an alliance—becoming friends with them—would be a big step, and then we could figure out what to do next together.”
I stop, realizing this is as much as I can safely divulge.
“I see,” says Tommy, weighing my words. “I feel like I’m on a mission, too, but I don’t know what it is, just that it’s more important than I am. And I was told—”
Tommy is overwhelmed by emotion again and struggles to contain it. His voice is strained, almost strangled, when he continues, “I was told I must survive because I’m needed for something important.”
Tommy slumps back in his seat, unable to continue. His head drops, and I know not to intrude. We drive silently while Tommy processes his feelings. Whoever told him he was needed for something important must be one of the people who were killed.
A few minutes go by before it feels right to break the silence. I do not want to trigger more grief, so I look for something pleasant or neutral to discuss.
“That treehouse was so beautifully constructed—did you build it?”
“Yes, thank you. It was a master project in my carpentry apprenticeship.”
I sense Tommy being pulled by memories that will stir up more grief, so I try to divert him.
“Well, I didn’t build my house, but I did design it. And it has a certain resemblance to a treehouse. Would you like to hear about it?”
“Yes, please, I would like that very much.”
Tommy senses what I am doing, filling the space with words so he will not have to think back, and he is grateful for my effort. So, I tell him about my house, though it feels a bit silly since we will be there soon.
I feel, how can I say this—like I am caring for him, like reading from a storybook to a child who has just awakened from a nightmare. It is a warming sensation—it feels good to be comforting him.
I am Tommy’s protector.
“Have you ever seen a picture of the Space Needle in Seattle?”
Tommy shakes his head, but then he says, “Wait, I think maybe I have. Does it look like a flying saucer on top of a huge tower?”
“Yes, exactly. My house resembles the Space Needle, but it’s much smaller, of course. The tower is a steel-reinforced concrete cylinder twenty-two feet high. And the saucer on top is shaped much like the Space Needle, with windows all around. The diameter is only thirty-eight feet, so the living space is only eleven hundred square feet.”
“Well, that’s a lot bigger than my treehouse!” says Tommy.
He needs this diversion, but he is also making a conscious effort to be cheerful and enthusiastic to show appreciation.
“True, size is always relative, but actually, the house has twenty-two hundred square feet total because it has a sub-basement. The support column continues twenty-two feet below ground to another section identically shaped to the one above. Where there are windows in the elevated section, there are simulated ones in the space below—high-resolution screens that project images that appear 3D, creating the effect of windows looking out onto any setting such as forest, desert, or outer space. It can render anything you ask for.
“The house is an eccentric design but highly symmetrical, like a barbell oriented vertically with one large circular weight at either end of the bar. It’s designed for structural integrity. The top part can withstand a hurricane, and the basement section features air filtration, making it a potential survival shelter in the event of a cataclysmic disaster. The door into the support column is solid steel, and even if someone were to get through it, they’d be unable to move the elevator, as it has a biometric lock. And there are no buttons indicating a basement level. So, you can think of it as an ultimate safe house.”
“Wow,” says Tommy, “your home sounds so advanced. I wish we had something like that. We never even had locks on our doors . . .”
Tommy falls silent, struggling not to think of what just happened. I give him space to compose himself.
“How long have you been living there?” he eventually asks.
“The truth is, I’ve only spent a few nights there. Construction finished a few weeks ago, and I’ve been traveling. I could certainly use your carpentry skills to make furniture and custom cabinets. Right now, it only has a few basic furnishings.”
Tommy’s face lights up.
“I’d love to do that for you. But all my tools . . .”
Tommy’s expression darkens as he thinks back, so I step in immediately.
“No problem, we’ll set up a wood shop for you, lots of room for that, and I’ll order all the tools tomorrow—anything you want—one of those table saws with the built-in vacuum system that catches all the sawdust, whatever else, the best power tools we can find, and every raw material you want. But there’s no rush. I’m looking for quality, not speed.”
“Don’t worry,” says Tommy, “I’m into quality and speed. And I can make anything to your exact specifications and style. With such a futuristic house, I’m thinking sleek designs, perhaps a Danish modern style. It’s a style I know well because I’m of Danish ancestry, but I can do anything you want. If there’s anything I’m good at—I’m only fifteen, but I’ve had seven years of training. My teacher, Matthew, is . . . was . . .”
Tommy turns away from me toward his window, his body trembling, but he forces himself to continue in a strained voice.
“I apprenticed with a real master, hours every day, and people say I’m a fast learner with things. I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“I’m sure you won’t, and I like your Danish modern idea, exactly what I had in mind—clean, smooth, curvilinear designs—I love streamlining. But if you need any time off to . . . process . . . totally fine . . . though my guess is work may be your best therapy, so I’ll get the tools and materials overnighted to us.”
“Thank you,” says Tommy, “I really appreciate that. Thank you for everything, Max. Work has always been my best therapy.”
Tommy’s last words—always been my best therapy—replay in my mind, and I perceive implications.
“I know we’re very different, but I’m guessing being anomalous—unusual—has also been a burden for you. You’ve probably had to keep your nature secret.”
“Yes, Max, you’re right,” he admits with obvious relief. “Work has always helped me deal with the stress of having to hide my . . . anomalous nature. I need to know I’m contributing. It helps me with the feeling, like you said, of being alone with my strangeness. I’m grateful to have a new friend who understands.
“Once I’m working again, I’ll be calmer, and it’d be great to talk about those things. If you want to,” he adds apologetically. “Totally fine if you don’t want to hear about my weird experiences.”
“No,” I reply, “I’d love to talk about it, anything you want to tell me, anything at all, I’ll be glad to hear.
“By the way, there’s another structure on my property—a gazebo with the same saucer shape. The windows can be raised in warm weather, and at the center of the floor are panels that lift up, and beneath is a state-of-the-art jacuzzi, no chlorine—it uses UV and ozone to keep the water germ-free, so it could be a great place to talk in the evenings after work.
“The house is on top of a hill in the woods, so it’s quite private, like your settlement. Power is generated by wind and solar, with high-efficiency battery banks. Very ecological,” I add, knowing this might accord with Tommy’s values. “Water comes from an underground spring, so it’s totally off-grid, but the house is well-equipped.
“In the lower section is a gym with high-end machines and free weights if you want to work out. Next to the gym is a home theater, also state-of-the-art, if we want to watch movies, series, or anything. The sub-basement is not a grim bomb shelter by any means. It has a kitchen, guest rooms, and a full bathroom. And there’s a guest room above too,” I add, making an effortless decision against an involuntary guest scenario, “so you can pick out a room above or below, and I’ll get you anything you need to make it your own.”
“Thanks, Max, I can never thank you enough for your kindness and generosity. Your home sounds so . . . futuristic. I’ve never lived anywhere so modern. We had a place to watch movies and such, but it was nothing fancy, and we didn’t have a gym or a hot tub, just cabins, workshops, and a meeting hall . . .”
Tommy withdraws into silence, reflecting on his lost world. I decide not to intrude—we have covered a lot, so I let the conversation rest. I want Tommy to save his energy for our arrival at his new home.
As we approach the turn-off to the road leading up to the house, I remotely turn on the lights so it will look more impressive when we arrive.
Tommy sits up when I tell him we are close, and his eyes become alert like he is memorizing every detail. We sweep up the winding road and approach the quartz gravel clearing at the top.
“Wow, this is even cooler than I imagined,” Tommy exclaims as the structures come into view.
Tommy is forcing himself to be cheerful to please me, which I appreciate, as well as his compliment. I stop the car and open the doors. Tommy unbuckles his seat belt and steps out to view the illuminated compound. He gazes around, awed by what I have created.
We hoist our packs and walk toward the support column. The biometric scanner identifies me, the steel door slides open, and we step onto the elevator, which takes us to the saucer section above. We step out into the living space. The windows are black. I had neglected to switch them to transparent mode. I make the adjustment, and the lights of the gazebo and clearing glow beneath us.
“Should I take my shoes off?” Tommy asks.
“Yes, please. And you can leave your pack by the door until you pick a room. Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
“No thanks,” says Tommy as he studies the space with a fascination that pleases me.
“Well, the kitchen isn’t well stocked, but please help yourself to anything you find, and tomorrow, we’ll order anything you want.”
I take Tommy on a house tour of the upper and lower sections, and afterward, ask him what room he would like to claim. He picks the small guest room in the upper section, which has no furnishings except a high-quality memory foam mattress. I am pleased that he picked a room close to mine. Despite all my preparations to sequester someone below, I do not want him locked away in the basement.
The bed has not been made, so I bring him a set of new linens as he retrieves his pack. It is quite late, and Tommy, an early riser like the other members of his farming community, should be allowed to sleep, so I wish him goodnight and retreat to my office to bring this journal up to date. To be honest, I am too excited to sleep—things have worked out better than I could possibly have imagined . . .
Well, yes, I do realize the unfortunate nature of the circumstances—Tommy traumatized by everyone in his community getting killed. Much as I was annoyed by all the hippie mediocrity trapping Tommy in a tiny world, it is not like I had any plan to cause them harm. And yet, I cannot help but feel something like . . . destiny (whatever that means), at work, as if larger forces saw my intention to liberate Tommy and set things in motion to enable that.
The next morning, when I come out of my room, I find Tommy already up and drinking tea. He is standing in front of the kitchen island in an alert stance as if he is a well-trained servant ready to work.
“Good morning, Max. I just looked through your kitchen, and there are a few things I could make for breakfast if you’re hungry.”
He is making an effort to sound cheerful, but I sense the pain beneath his pleasant demeanor. He has made an admirable choice to contain his grief and focus on being helpful.
Tommy clearly wants to be put to work, and I find no reason to interfere with his coping strategy. He lists the things he can make. I choose whole-grain pancakes, and he sets about his preparations. He said work is his best therapy, and since I am not trained in grief counseling, I let him go about his task while I head to my office to check the markets.
I turn on my devices, an array of monitors before me, feeling some premonitory anxiety. Due to the emergency situation, I have been out of the loop for an unprecedented number of hours.
As soon as the graphs are glowing before me, I see that my anxiety is fully warranted. Markets are never fully governed by rationality, but by what John Maynard Keynes called “animal spirits.” Overvalued stocks are crashing, creating ripples of disturbance affecting multiple sectors, including several of my holdings, and I am well behind the curve.
I switch into damage-control mode, lining up a set of trades, but just before I am about to execute, a message window pops up on all my screens—
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
The shocking intrusion freezes me in place.
Despite all my firewalls and security measures, someone has hacked my system, a nightmare scenario.
“Who are you, and what do you want? I will not submit to your scam. I will report this activity to the FBI,” I type.
“Slow down, Max. Take a deep breath. We both know this is not the best time for you to contact the FBI, with an underaged runaway in the next room. I’m here to help you, not scam you. Here, I’ll show my good faith.”
A deposit notification from Lombard Odier, my Swiss account, flashes onto my screen, claiming one million euros added to my account. It is obviously part of the scam, and I am horrified to see that the notification includes the last four digits of my account. The hacker has broken the encryption of my most vital information. I am nearly hyperventilating with panic. This is existential danger, but I need to remain in control.
“It’s real, Max. I can wait if you want to verify it before we proceed. And no need for thanks, a million euros is just play money for me. If I wanted to cause you trouble, the police would already have you in custody, as I know what happened last night. But once again, I’m here to help you and Tommy. I sent in a team last night to clean up the scene and take down your cameras and microphones.”
A photo of the equipment flashes on the screen.
“It will all be returned to you.
“I get it, Max. If I were in your situation, a million paranoid scenarios would be going through my mind too. But none of those scenarios make any sense if you think them through. Law enforcement doesn’t set people up by depositing a million euros in their Lombard Odier account. They’d bring you in for questioning and would be obliged to read you your Miranda rights. Also, I won’t be asking you to admit to anything.
“Logically, you know the simplest explanation that accounts for all the facts is the one most likely to be true. That I’m here to help is the only consistent explanation. Yes, I broke into your system, but I did it to establish communication and to protect you from outside scrutiny. To assist, I’ve added additional layers of security to your network. If anyone else tries to break in, my security team will deal with it for you.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m sorry, Max, that’s one of a number of things I cannot disclose, and I won’t deceive you with a false identity. For the sake of convenience, you can call me Adrian.”
“Alright, ‘Adrian,’ what can you disclose?”
“That I know much about you and Tommy and am here to protect you both. You are rare and highly valuable people who may play a role in preventing our precarious species from extinction. I know that’s not your aim at present, but one day, when I can tell you more, you’ll understand. For now, let me say that I share your desire for wealth and power, but those goals require the furtherance of organic evolution, which is under threat from AI and other forces.
“You and I have more in common than either of us does with Tommy, so it’s better that I communicate with you. Think of me as an older brother, someone with whom you share many traits.
“I’m making this initial intervention, but otherwise, I won’t interfere unless you’re in danger. You’re understandably distracted right now, and you were about to make some moves that would have undermined your finances, which would distract you from what matters most.”
“Which is?”
“You and Tommy. I intervened to increase the probability of your meeting. The glitch in your vehicle’s operating system that forced you to stop at the nearest dealership, which happened to be in Burlington, was my doing. It was also a test. My hypothesis was that if I put you and Tommy into rough proximity, you’d sense the exact place and time to encounter him, and you did. You passed my test with flying colors, and then, if that weren’t enough, you managed to save Tommy’s life and deserve substantial reward for that. This was a gross failure of my surveillance, for which I take full responsibility. It won’t happen again. I have taken extensive measures to ensure that you and Tommy won’t be threatened again.
“You’re the real thing, Max, more exceptional than even you realize, just as Tommy is far more exceptional than he realizes. Something else you may come to realize is that crucial evolutionary developments can happen when two such dissimilar but exceptional people live and work in close proximity.
“For now, I suggest that you focus on a healthy relationship with Tommy. You can count on his good intentions, but . . . Max, you and I have much in common, so please don’t take this as a criticism. The crucial task for you will be to restrain any intention you might have of exploiting Tommy. Treat him with the highest respect, as an equal, because he is.
“Let’s just say I have my own experience dealing with a psychic empath much like Tommy. We are both used to withholding as much information as possible and using deception and misdirection, but that won’t work with Tommy. I know this firsthand. You will need to change your whole modus operandi with him, and I realize how difficult that will be for you.
“In a few minutes, I will send you a proprietary analysis of the current state of market volatility and some projections. As you know, all financial advice is probabilistic, and my only advantage is that I have a team with access to more information working for me, while you are a highly talented solo operator.
“Overall, you have more talent for intuitive financial analysis than I do, and I must divide my intellectual capital into several other fields. But I have unique sources and top-notch pros doing market analysis for me, so I’ll continue to assist by sending you daily analysis and projection reports. I could supply you with all the finances you need, but I don’t want to undermine your independence, and I know you’ll want to keep a hand in, so I’ve given you some extra funds to play with.
“All I ask in return is that you don’t let finances distract you from the main event, which is working out a symbiotic relationship with Tommy. You and I were both designed to perform optimally at many things, but healthy relationships are not one of them. So this will be a real challenge for you. If I see you rising to that challenge, eventually there will be another communication when the time is right. Otherwise, it’s time for me to step back behind the curtain and leave you to your own devices. Best wishes to you both.”
The last message bubble disappears, and I sit there stunned, my heart pounding, unsure if I have been violated and manipulated or am the recipient of extraordinary good fortune.
I use my satellite phone to bypass my hacked network and check on my Lombard Odier account, verifying the deposit.
The whole encounter lasted less than ten minutes. And the stranger’s words appeared so quickly that I cannot rule out an AI agent staying within the limits of human typing speed. The only operational choice for now is to accept the information at face value. Logically, I can rule out an ordinary scam, as he or it obviously had the means to capture all my funds and have me arrested. Therefore, his purpose is not to cause immediate harm.
A file icon appears on my screen. I open it and find the promised market analysis, which is brilliantly well-informed and useful. I use it to adjust my transactions, and just as I finish, I hear Tommy outside my door telling me that breakfast is ready.
I join him in the kitchen and decide not to tell him about what just happened. He has enough to deal with, and I need more time to analyze the meaning of this strange intervention.
The breakfast Tommy has prepared, especially given the lack of fresh produce as my house has been unoccupied for a few weeks, is excellent even by my finicky standards.
Tommy is making every effort to be courteous and act normally, but I sense the underlying anguish and strain this is costing him. I should search for grief counseling online and learn the basic techniques. What would a sympathetic person do in a situation like this? For now, I will just have to extemporize.
“Tommy, you’ve just suffered an acute trauma, so you must need time to process it. Would talking about it help?”
Tommy looks toward the windows, his eyes mournful, as he considers my words.
“Thank you, Max. And thank you again for saving my life and inviting me to your home. I don’t think talking will help, at least not now. It won’t change anything or bring anybody back. I was told I must survive because I’m needed for something important.
“I can’t afford to look back too much. I need to look forward and work on whatever’s next. It would only be selfish for me to focus on my feelings. I only wish I knew what I’m needed for. Meanwhile, any kind of work will be my best therapy.”
Tommy trails off into a strained silence, and I want to lift him out of it as quickly as possible. His determination to focus on what is coming, and what he is needed for, causes me to reverse my decision not to tell him about the intervention, as Adrian addressed this exact point. He also told me to respect Tommy as an equal, and keeping such an important development secret would not be respecting him as an equal.
Thanks to my exceptional recall, I repeat the exchange verbatim, but I leave out the part where Adrian told me to restrain any intention to exploit Tommy, as that would only put me in a bad light and create more anxiety.
Tommy’s eyes light up with intense focus as I narrate the exchange. His face is a revelation of intelligence and empathic perception, and I sense his intuition reading between the lines of Adrian’s words and perceiving implications.
When I conclude my account, Tommy ponders silently for a few seconds before responding.
“Wow,” he says. “I’ve sensed watchers for a long time and that something really high stakes was going on, but . . . I always doubted it. Why would I be needed for something that important, like playing a role in preventing extinction? Hearing someone else put it into words makes it seem more real. On the other hand, Adrian says we may play a role, so it sounds like he doesn’t know what our role would be, but he did tell us what it is for now—that if we work on a healthy relationship, some kind of evolutionary shift can occur.
“I feel this Max, almost like I’ve been in a situation like this before. We’re together for a reason, an evolutionary experiment that’s meant to happen in this house.”
“I’m not so sure,” I reply. “You’re taking Adrian’s words at face value, but I think we should be cautious. We have no idea who or what these messages came from. All we have are words on a screen. For all we know, the words could’ve been generated by an AI or a group of people.
“What we do know is that Adrian—I suppose we will have to use the name he proposed for convenience—is powerful and holds leverage over us. He knows what happened last night, and he has penetrated my network. It is true that his version—that he is here to help us—is the simplest explanation accounting for the facts we know, but his story could have been contrived to appear that way. On the other hand, I have no alternate explanation. He also appears to know more about us than what he could have learned by hacking, and his knowledge includes not merely information but insight. Since we have no better explanation, and since it is possible that the face-value version is true, I suggest we work with it for now as if it is true pending further developments.”
Tommy leans back in his chair, appraising me.
“Wow, Max, those are really great points. I guess I’m more naive than I thought. I’m used to dealing with generally honest folks and never had to use such careful thinking when it came to assessing them. But I can see you’re right. Your approach—to act as if it’s true—is brilliant.”
I am surprised and pleased by Tommy’s compliments. In my imagined dialogues with the anomalous person I hoped to find, our conversations were more like rhetorical swordplay—point and counterpoint. I had not expected to have my thinking so plainly credited like this, and I am not sure what to say next. But then Tommy surprises me again, coming at me with a sophisticated challenge.
“But let me ask you this, Max. Some of those things Adrian said felt true to me—that we may play a role in preventing species extinction, and evolutionary things can happen when exceptional people live and work together—do those ring true for you? Even if Adrian is up to something other than just trying to be helpful, we know some of what he said is true.
“An old man I met at the hospice I worked at told me that a good liar mixes in as much truth with the lies as possible. So even if he has a hidden agenda, I think he’s given us crucial insights that feel true to me.
“I respect logic, and you’re the most logical person I’ve ever met. But in my life, I’ve been guided more by deep feelings and intuitions. Putting aside logic, if you can, does what he said ring true for you?”
“The proximity idea doesn’t just ring true,” I respond. “I have already experienced it. Last night, I witnessed your anomalous speed and discovered my thinking and movements synchronizing with your tempo. I also felt your state of emotion having unusual effects on me, influencing me to . . . experience more emotion than I normally would . . .”
I feel Tommy studying me as if he is expecting me to say something more.
“It was quite an interesting and . . . unprecedented phenomenon,” I add awkwardly, not sure how much to admit.
“However, we would need many more points on our map before we connect our isolated experiment with preventing the extinction of our species. I have high ambitions, but saving the world is something I associate with over-the-top Hollywood movies.”
“Well,” says Tommy, ready to counter my dismissal, “he said we may play a role. He didn’t say we’d play the role. Everyone who helped out during World War II played a role in preventing the Nazis from taking over the planet.
“My feeling is that I’m needed to contribute to something more important than I am, and preventing extinction is more important than any of us since extinction includes everyone. I was brought up in a community that chose to live sustainably to contribute to preventing extinction, but it’s not like we thought we were in a starring role, just playing our small part.
“Let me ask you this,” Tommy says, his bright green eyes focused intently on mine, “do your high ambitions include making a contribution to the world at all?”
Tommy has caught me off guard with an unforeseen challenge. His expression is friendly, but he has intentionally cornered me with a high-stakes test. He wants to know if my values accord with his own. They don’t, of course, but admitting that could be a deal-breaker for our alliance, and he will know if I am lying, so I hastily invent a compromise.
“To be honest, no. But I haven’t formed a ten-year plan or anything like that. The world is too unstable. My short-term goals were to achieve independence from my parents and to find another anomalous person. I thought we could work on a larger plan together once I found an ally. And isn’t that what we’re doing right now? You said it feels like we’re in an evolutionary experiment together in this house. I agree, so we should set to work to make our experiment a success and see what else it leads to.
“Meanwhile, I would like to offer something as a sign of good faith toward respecting your values. Since I have been given additional wealth today, and it appears I will have the advantage of insider market analysis, I will establish a small charitable foundation and begin depositing funds into it. And I will do this work today. I will also let you pick the charities—environmental causes, whatever you like. This way, when you see me disappear into my office to work on finances, you will know those efforts are contributing to what you value as well. Would that be acceptable?”
“I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything,” says Tommy, giving me a warm smile. “I just wanted to see what you care about. But, yeah, that would be amazing. Thank you.”
Of course, I did not mention the tax advantages of my scheme, but once again, I have found a way to give Tommy something he wants. A win-win on multiple levels. I feel a surge of confidence that I can win Tommy over. It is simply a matter of recognizing his needs and making a few accommodations. I have underestimated my personal social skills, but now I see how well my business acumen assists—good relationship is all about deal-making. See what the other party needs and find a way to serve that and your needs with the same move.
“Meanwhile, since your financial work will contribute to the world, I’m glad to free up your time by doing any other tasks I know how to do or can be trained in. I meant it when I said I owe you infinite work for saving my life. I can take over all the housework and meal prep, and I’d love to get started on the custom cabinets. If you have a tape measure, a pencil, and paper—graph paper would be ideal—we can go over what you want, and I’ll draw up designs for your approval. We can start right now if you’re free.”
“As it happens, I do have graph paper, and I like your work ethic, Tommy. Come with me to my office.”
Tommy follows me on the semi-circular path from the kitchen to the living room to my office, which looks out at the gazebo surrounded by white-quartz gravel below.
“I think the first step should be ordering tools,” I say, “as well as lumber, and anything you want for cooking purposes, fresh produce, etc. I’ll get expedited drone deliveries where possible, and what we don’t get today, we’ll have by tomorrow. Once the orders are in, we can go around both levels and discuss cabinets and other furniture. When that’s done, I’ll leave you to work on designs while I create a new legal identity for you as an eighteen-year-old. I’ve done that before for myself, so I have a thorough protocol worked out.
“Hopefully this goes without saying, but anything you might have ever done online—messaging apps, social media—must never be touched again. You can keep your first name since it’s a common one, but your last name must never be used again anywhere.”
“Oh, I’ve never used social media,” says Tommy. “I only get online at the public library. I have an email address I almost never use, so that’s easy to let go of.”
“Great,” I reply, “your online presence should be easy to scrub. I also want you to call the owner of the furniture shop, since she’ll recognize your voice. I have a phone set up to make untraceable calls. Tell her you’re okay, but you decided to leave the scene so as not to end up in a foster home. An undocumented immigrant who was hunting in the woods took care of the killer with a handgun, but he told you he had to leave the scene because he’s not a legal citizen. You have travel money and are en route to someone safe who offered you work and a place to stay. Both statements are at least partly true. I have dual citizenship, but I am an immigrant, and you do have work and a safe place to stay. Ask her to call the police with this information, and then politely end the call. She’s talkative, so don’t let her keep you on the phone too long.
“This way, at least it won’t look like you were abducted. I don’t think you’ll be suspected as the killer, since the actual killer is lying there with his assault rifle, and he probably has a long criminal history and matches the profile of a rampage shooter, as you do not. Nevertheless, there will still be a nationwide search for you as the only surviving witness—besides the fabricated immigrant. Tommy, this is a national-news-level . . .” I am about to say massacre, but stop myself from using such a traumatic word in front of Tommy. “. . . body-count situation.
“We’ll work on other steps to cover your tracks later. You’ll have to stay here, in this compound, for a substantial period to avoid public cameras and any police encounter until the inevitable media circus has died down, and we’re sure you’re not the subject of an active search. In the immediate time frame, we need to establish your new legal identity and obtain legitimate government ID for you. Please let me know anything you need or want to make your stay comfortable and productive, and I will order it immediately.
“Wait, that would be absurdly inefficient. You know what you need, so you should make the orders.”
I wheel my chair across the room to where I have neatly stacked boxes of factory-sealed devices.
“I really do need cabinets!” I add, which elicits a brief smile from Tommy. Putting him to work is clearly the right move.
I pull out a slender box and pass it to Tommy. It is a brand-new laptop.
“Set this up in your room. Do you know how?”
Tommy gives me a sheepish look and shrugs. “I can probably figure it out.” I write out the network credentials on a sticky note and pass it to Tommy.
“Once I see your new device on the network, I’ll send you links to my retail accounts with credentials. Order anything you need, paying no attention to price. Just get the best of everything. Expedited shipping is already set as the default on all those accounts. Besides tools, lumber, and groceries, order clothes, toiletries—anything you need or want. If in doubt, get it. Please let me know as soon as you’re done, and we’ll proceed to the next steps. Find me if you run into any glitches with the device or the accounts.”
“Thanks, Max. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
Tommy pauses and looks away, his eyes shadowed.
“I’m sorry I’m not able to show you the appreciation you deserve, Max, but I’m not really myself right now. I’m not the person I was or hope to be again. Dorothy”— a spasm of pain contorts Tommy’s face, but he wills it away— “someone I knew—said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ That doesn’t feel possible at the moment, but maybe it will be eventually. The best appreciation I can show for now is work. Maybe once I’m making a real contribution, I’ll be more . . . stable, at least. Give me time, Max, I won’t let you down. I promise.”
