I sit in a bright room, fluorescent lights pouring light down onto my tired body. Sticky sweat dribbles out of pores, rolls off my back onto a wooden chair. The sweat, a byproduct of the heated air streaming out of several steel grates firmly planted in the concrete underneath my feet.

I’ve been strapped to the chair for days, weeks, months. So it seems. Time stands still in a place like this.

A noise. A door, the only door, the black-iron barred door behind me. A key klinks, clicks and I hear a squeek, a groan as the door struggles to stay on its hinges.

Foots steps approach me from behind. He’s wearing heavy boots. 

Two large hands, firm hands, clamp down on my shoulders. A stream of ash-gray smoke passes under my nose, filling my nostrils with its offensive odor. I suck in the burnt ash, letting its heat flow down my dry throat into my lungs. I cough and he speaks.

“Good to see you Tom,” says the voice. A soft, feminine voice. “So, what brings you out west?”

My eyes dance around the room.

“The scenery.” Snarky, but it’s me and she knows it. She takes her hand off my shoulder and stands in front of me. A gray suit. Nazi-German gray. I think about the old clichés from videogames long-since buried.

A gloved hand hits me in the jaw, right side. I feel the sting and the red-mark that no doubt is growing in contrast to my pale, white skin.

“I’ll ask you again. What brings you out west?”

I think about the answer. Answers. Too many to count. She. Her. Him. They and them.

“You,” I say.