At her last school, it had taken months. Months before she’d heard the word. At the school before that, it had taken years. But this time, just four weeks had passed.

Retard.

To Michelle, the word itself was meaningless. She’d never used it, didn’t know when it was meant to be used. If she’d ever tried to use it, she’d just have been guessing.

But she knew where the word led. She knew what it meant to her life. When she heard it, she knew. She knew that it was time to pack.

“Hey, retard.” A boy’s voice. “You got a second for us?”

With her books propped against her hip, she slammed her locker and turned, her eyes searching. Who had said it? Who had said the word? The hall was full of students, a stream of bodies flowing in all directions, but only Joe Downey was looking at her, standing in a group of his friends a short distance away, near an open classroom door. He was grinning that terrible grin, the grin that was a warning. What came after it was never good.

“Look at that,” Joe said when their eyes met. “It knows its name.”

He looked happy, proud even. But Michelle remembered the day they’d met. He hadn’t been happy or proud then. He’d approached her, and she’d said something wrong. She had insulted him somehow, and that had been that.

“You got time for us?” Joe asked. “Or are you busy?”

He said the last word with a sneer and, suddenly anxious, she approached him quickly, in a straight line. It was all boys there, Jerry, Brian, David and Max. Of course Max, he was always there, Joe’s sidekick. Joe was the shortest and the roundest. It was always the short, round ones. What was wrong with them?

The boys watched her, waiting, but she was stuck on what to say. A sick feeling was making it hard to think. A feeling she’d felt before, that often led to tears. It was starting, this was it. The beginning of the end.

“Oh Jesus,” Joe exclaimed. “It’s going to stare me to death!”

Laughter, they all laughed. There was something to be said here, but Michelle wasn’t sure what it was. Joe should explain. She could ask him to explain. But she couldn’t speak. Some horrible sound was trapped in her throat, and if she opened her mouth it would escape.

“Where’s your nurse?” Joe asked, a tone of concern in his voice that even she knew was dishonest. “Where’s Ryan?”

“I don’t know what I did,” she muttered.

“You don’t know what you did?” Joe repeated. “Well, you just walked over here. Before that you were at your locker. Wow, Ryan should know better than to let you wander around all by yourself.”

They were all looking at her intensely, as if they couldn’t quite see her. Squinting, brows furrowed. She was standing in a fog, difficult to discern.

“I don’t know what I did that made you do this,” she said. “I don’t know why I have to leave.”

She remembered the day, not long after she and Ryan had become friends. It was lunchtime, she was in the courtyard, and Joe approached her. There were pickles in her sandwich. Her father had put pickles in her sandwich, even though her father knew she hated pickles. He’d just forgotten, an innocent mistake, but still it was frustrating.

Joe approached her, but she was distracted, her sandwich open in her hand. She was peeling pickle slices out of a smear of mayonnaise, knowing that even without them her sandwich would still taste like pickles. Joe said something, he was smiling. But she didn’t have time for him.

“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” she said, staring at a slice of pickle dangling from between her fingertips.

Then a kind of panic, her words echoing in her short-term memory. She’d been too blunt. Not because she knew what blunt was, just what it sounded like. She tossed the pickle aside and looked up at him, but it was too late, the smile was gone. Something else had replaced it, an expression she’d seen before on the faces of other kids. She’d blown it.

He said something else, waited, but she only knew how to make the mistake, not fix it. There were words; she didn’t know them. He scowled and waved at her, a dismissal. Then he walked away, to the edge of the courtyard where Max stood. Joe said something, then the two of them looked at her and laughed. And from then on, every time they saw her, they laughed.

Like they were laughing now.

“Leave?” Joe said. “Are you gonna leave? That’d be a shame. We’d hate to see you go.”

“I always have to leave,” Michelle said, feeling it like she felt little else. Her eyes were hot, swollen. “There’s always a problem, I never know why, and then I always have to leave.”

Now they were looking at her wide-eyed. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, that’s what it was. They were watching her cry. But of course she was crying. All this leaving, all this trying. It was hard on her parents. And it would be hard on Ryan. She’d had friends before, but there’d never been someone like Ryan.

“Shit, Michelle,” Joe said, “I thought you were just retarded. But you’re a fuckin’ nut!”

“Fascist!” she hissed, and with a sweep of her arm across her face the tears were gone.

She stepped around them, past them, the main entrance a rectangle of light, the way out. They were behind her, forgotten. Then Ellie Brand stepped in her path, her eyebrows pulled together, a look of concern that Michelle knew was real. Nice, but too late.

“Where are you going?” Ellie asked. She peered over Michelle’s shoulder. “What did they do?”

“I need to go,” Michelle pleaded.

“What did they do?” Ellie asked again.

“Nothing,” Michelle insisted. “It’s not them, it’s me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s must be me, because they’re still here. If it was them then they’d have to leave, right?”

“Come with me to the bathroom,” Ellie said.

She reached out for Michelle’s arm; Michelle pulled it away. She knew that Ellie was only trying to help, but she didn’t want to go to the bathroom. There wasn’t time.

“I need to go home and pack,” she said.

“You won’t stay?” Ellie asked, so patient. Always so patient and friendly. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“It’s Saturday. Can I call you?”

“Okay.”

***

At home she climbed the stairs and entered her mother’s bedroom. Alice was there, in bed, fast asleep. But of course she was there, in bed, fast asleep. That was Alice most of the time. Michelle couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother out of bed.

Alice’s nightgown was too small, her swollen bulk pushing at its seams, its fabric a second skin. Her obese frame spilled across the mattress. There was no longer room for Tom, so he didn’t sleep here. Instead he slept in the small bedroom down the hall, the one across from Michelle’s. All he needed was a bed, he said, and a place to hang his suits.

Alice had been thin once, very thin. Michelle had seen pictures. Then she’d become pregnant, and then Michelle had arrived, but Alice had just kept growing and growing, and she was still growing. One day she wouldn’t be able to leave her room. Which would be fine with Alice. She didn’t want to leave her room.

Michelle watched her mother for a moment, watched her breathe, with an ear tuned to the muttering on the TV. Shopping, a shopping channel. Alice was shopping. And Alice was breathing. So she was okay. That was all Michelle was required to do, make sure Alice was still alive, and leave the TV on. Never turn off the TV. Alice would be spooked if she ever woke up and the TV was off, she’d scream and scream. It terrified her to think that someone had been in the room while she’d been sleeping. It terrified her to imagine what might have occurred.

Michelle left and moved across the landing to her own bedroom. She sat on the end of her bed, looked around at all the things she’d have to pack, things that not too long ago she had unpacked. She’d be packing things she had just unpacked. She wondered if the phone would ring. When the school called her father and told him that she’d missed her last two classes, he’d know exactly what had happened and where she was and what she was doing. She was a retard. She was home. She was packing.

But she wasn’t packing. Why wasn’t she packing? No one had told her to pack, like before. But now she was conditioned, she knew it was time to pack. But she wasn’t packing. Why wasn’t she packing? Because no one had told her to pack. Like before. But wasn’t she conditioned now? Didn’t she know it was time to pack? If so, why wasn’t she packing? Why was she still sitting on the end of her bed? She wasn’t packing.

Then it was dark.

It was dark, yet it hadn’t been dark before. But now it was dark. Michelle stood, walked around her bed to the nightstand, picked up the extension, dialed Ryan’s number. After five rings, voicemail picked up. Maybe five rings hadn’t been enough. Ryan hadn’t been able to reach the phone in time. She hung up and dialed again. Five rings. Voicemail. She hung up and tried again. Five rings. Voicemail. She hung up and left the room.

On her way downstairs she once again checked in on her mother. She was still asleep, the TV was still on. She hadn’t moved in however long it had been. How long had it been? It had been light outside then. Now it was dark. Where was Ryan? At the bookstore probably, or at least that’s where she wanted him to be. It would be perfect if he was at the bookstore and she went to him now and they spent the evening together at the bookstore. She left the house and walked quickly to the bus stop.

***

There were only two people in the bookstore, that fat boy Kyle and a person that Michelle assumed was a customer. A bell rang when the front door was opened, but Kyle didn’t notice her, he had his back to her. He was talking, and the customer was listening. He was talking a lot. She remembered him talking about fascists. She’d called Joe a fascist. She didn’t know what a fascist was, only that it was something bad. Kyle had given her that word.

She walked slowly through the store, peering behind every bookshelf, around every corner, checking to see if someone else was there. Checking to see if Ryan was there. She even glanced into the small office behind the counter, but there was no one inside. It was just Kyle and the customer, Kyle talking and the customer listening.

At the rear of the store, she lowered herself into one of the overstuffed easy chairs. She would wait. Ryan was coming, and she would wait there for him. Or maybe he wasn’t coming, but it didn’t matter, she’d wait there anyway. She could pack tomorrow.

The sound of a key in a lock. Michelle opened her eyes and sat up. The store was dark, the lights were off. She heard the front door open, the bell rang and someone slumped inside, footsteps heavy. Outside the moon hung full in a star-filled sky. The front door closed; the lock turned.

What had happened? She’d fallen asleep, and Kyle had closed the store and left her inside. She had been overlooked. And now someone was moving slowly through the store. Footsteps, and the sound of something being dragged. Michelle stood. What was this? This was a mistake, but not hers.

She said nothing, just waited and watched. She was curious. A figure stepped into view, in the gap between the shelves. A man, dimly lit, walking backwards. Pulling something. Grunting, heavy breathing. Michelle took several steps forward. If the man looked now, he’d see her there, a silhouette against the large back window. But he didn’t look, just kept dragging. The thing being dragged was in a sack. Those were legs sticking out. It was wearing shoes.

Strange. Now she wanted to ask, it was all so mysterious. But what time was it? Dark outside, it was late. She was late. Her father would have the entire F.B.I. out looking for her. Not really, but he’d be worried. He always was.

The figure was behind the counter now, struggling to open the office door. She moved through the store to the front door, tried the handle. Locked. Deadbolt. Behind her the office door opened, and then another door. Michelle couldn’t get out without a key. The man who’d just entered, he had a key. He’d have to let her out.

She stepped into the small office behind the counter. A desk, a wooden chair. The narrow door at the back was open. Downstairs was Walker’s den. Michelle moved to the top of the stairs, looked down. A light was on. She couldn’t see anyone, but the man had to be there, he couldn’t be anywhere else. And the man, it had to be Walker. Who else could it be? And Walker wouldn’t be angry that she was in his store. Of course not. He liked her.

Michelle descended the stairs. At the bottom, the bookshelves, old books, spines cracked and stained. The worn and faded oriental rug, the antique easy chair, the burgundy curtain. This was a great room, so comfortable. She could spend hours here but doubted Walker would let her. It was his hideaway, not hers. She would be intruding. She was already intruding.

Something was different. The corner. Before there hadn’t been shelves there, but now there were. Last time there’d been… she couldn’t remember. No, yes she could. Because there it was, next to the end table, a small dresser, now pulled out of the corner, its space now taken by shelves. Pulled out of the corner so that all of the shelves on that wall could be slid sideways into the corner.

But why? Michelle pivoted slowly, eyes following the shelves, and at the other end there was a door. A door where there hadn’t been a door before. Because before there’d been shelves there. The gap at one end of the shelves, where there’d been a dresser, replaced by at a gap at the other end, where there was now a door. A door that stood open, open and inward, into a room on the other side.

Michelle smiled. She’d been right.

She stepped across the room to the doorway, stood for a moment peering into the other room, the hidden room, everything else forgotten. She wasn’t a retard; she had known. The floor was dirt, packed but uneven. There were no shelves on the walls, they were bare. There was no furniture, just a bathtub. A bathtub, but nothing else that would be in a bathroom. Nothing else at all.

A man was lying on the floor. She took him in slowly. The soles of his shoes, then his dark suit pants, then his white dress shirt, then his face. He was unconscious. Or he was sleeping. His chest was moving, he was breathing. He was sleeping or unconscious. His eyes were closed.

A bathtub, and a man lying on the floor. And Ryan’s father standing over the man, holding a grey concrete block, his arms extended, the block out in front of him, directly above the man’s face. What was it? Some game? But it seemed dangerous. The block looked heavy. She knew they were heavy. She’d held one. She remembered that. She didn’t remember why.

“Walker,” she said.

His head snapped in her direction, his expression at first confusing. Was he unhappy to see her? He’d always been nice to her.

“Michelle,” he said, looking past her. “Are you here with Ryan?”

“I was waiting for Ryan,” she said. “Kyle locked me in. I didn’t want him to.”

“So you’re here alone?”

She nodded, and he smiled. So it was alright.

“I was right,” she said, “and you lied to me.”

“I lied to you?”

“About the basement.”

He sighed and lowered the concrete block, resting it against his thighs.

“Only a little bit,” he said. “I told you you were right, the basement had been bigger. But the part about my neighbor, yes, that wasn’t true.”

“Yeah.”

She remembered his words. Good eye, he’d said. That’d been nice, although she’d forgotten about that until now. There was a man lying on the dirt floor.

“Who’s that?” Michelle asked, her eyes on the soles of the man’s shoes. They were as good as new. Had he ever worn them before? Had he bought them today?

“That is Matt,” Walker said. “A friend of my wife’s.”

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

Walker made a face.

“Nothing much,” he said. “We’d been drinking. Well, he’d been drinking. Then he hit his head.”

Now Walker smiled again, and Michelle smiled too, even though there was a man on the floor. A man who’d hit his head. Must’ve hit it hard. He wasn’t moving.

“This is special, Michelle,” Walker was saying. “I would’ve come for you anyway. But instead you came to me. That just proves it. You and I, this was meant to happen.”

He looked down at Matt and again extended his arms, the concrete block out in front of him.

“But first,” he said, “there’s Matt to deal with.”

The block slipped from his fingers, and Matt’s legs jerked as his head disappeared, replaced by the block. Michelle’s body seemed to understand something that her mind didn’t. She slumped sideways against the frame of the open door. She felt weak all over. Her stomach felt sick.

“A bit blunt,” Walker said, nodding. “I know. That’s not normally how it works down here.”

“What just happened?” Michelle asked, taking a wobbly step forward.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “That won’t happen to you.”

Of course that wouldn’t happen to her, that hadn’t even occurred to her. But should it have occurred to her? Matt was dead. Ryan’s father had just killed Matt. Who was Matt?

“Matt has nothing to do with anything,” Walker said, as if he’d just read her thoughts. “He shouldn’t even be here. He’s only here because it’s convenient. The others let me down, sure, but still he’s unworthy of them. I’ll put him as far away from the others as I can.”

He gestured at the floor and then made another face. This one she recognized. Remorse, a word her father had used. Or was it resignation? He always helped her out, her father, naming things. But a lot of these faces looked the same.

“The last one?” Walker was telling her. “That girl from Laurelhurst? I thought I was getting better at choosing. But she was a nightmare.”

He shook his head and took a step toward her, rubbing his hands together. Cement dust drifted to the floor.

“But you,” he said, smiling warmly, now standing just a few feet in front of her. “It’ll be different with you.”

Why this feeling? Everything he was saying was nice. But her body wanted out. She could turn and run away now. Her body wanted her to turn and run away.

“I think you’re going to make it,” Walker said, nodding. “I think you’re going to live.”

But the front door was locked. And Walker had the key.

“You’re going to live.”

He punched her in the face as hard as he could.

She hit the ground like a wet towel.