“You kicked me in the nuts. That wasn’t fate; it was your foot.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. But, see, I had to do something or you’d just leave. It hurts, I know, but there’s no real damage. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way.”

Connor laughs bitterly at that. He can’t help himself. He wonders if anyone saw the attack happen. If someone did, they didn’t care, or at least they didn’t care enough to stop it.

“Friends don’t tie friends up in a cellar,” Connor points out.

“Yeah, sorry about that, too.” But he makes no move to untie him. “Here’s the quandary. You know what a quandary is, right? Sure you do. See, if I untie you, you’ll probably bolt. So I have to convince you I’m the real deal. A decent guy in spite of knocking you out and tying you up. I gotta make you see that a friend like me is hard to find in this screwed-up world and that this is the place where you want to be. You don’t gotta run anymore. See, nobody looks for nobody in Heartsdale.”

His captor stands and paces, gesturing with his hands. His eyes get wide as he talks as if he’s telling a campfire story. He’s not even looking at Connor anymore as he weaves his little fantasy. Connor just lets him talk, figuring in his verbal diarrhea, he might expel some piece of information that Connor can use.

“I got it all figured out,” he continues. “We’ll dye your hair as dark as mine. I know a guy who’ll do pigment injections in your eyes on the cheap so they’ll look the same hazel as mine—although I can see one of your eyes is slightly different from the other, but we can get them to match, right? Then we’ll tell folks you’re my cousin from Wichita, on account of everyone knows I got family in Wichita. With my help, you’ll disappear so good, no one’ll know you’re not dead.”

The thought of being made to look like this guy in any way is almost as unpleasant as a kick to the groin. And disappearing in Heartsdale? That’s the stuff of nightmares. Yet in spite of everything, Connor dredges up the warmest smile he can muster.

“You say you want to be friends, but I don’t even know your name.”

He looks offended. “It was on my name tag at the market. Don’t you remember?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Not too observant, are you? A guy in your situation should learn to be more observant.” And then he adds, “Not your situation here. I mean your situation out there.”

Connor waits until his captor finally says, “Argent. Like Sergeant without the S. It means money in French. Argent Skinner at your service.”

“Of the Wichita Skinners.”

Argent looks a bit shocked and increasingly suspicious. “You heard of us?”

Connor considers toying with him, but decides that Argent won’t look kindly upon it once he figures it out. “No—you said so before.”

“Oh, right.”

Now Argent just stares at him, grinning until the trapdoor swings open and someone else clambers down the steps. The woman looks somewhat like Argent, but a couple of years older, taller, and a little doughier—not fat, but a bit heavyset and unshapely. Dowdy—if a woman so young could be called dowdy. Her expression is a bit vaguer than Argent’s, if indeed that’s possible.

“Is that him? Can I see him? Is it really him?”

Suddenly Argent’s whole demeanor changes. “You shut your stupid hole!” he shouts. “You want the whole world to know who we got visitin’?”

“Sorry, Argie.” Her broad shoulders seem to fold at the reprimand.

Connor quickly sizes her up to be Argent’s older sister. Twenty-two or twenty-three, although she carries herself much younger. The slack expression on her face speaks of a dullness that isn’t her fault, although Argent clearly blames her for it.

“You want to keep us company, then go sit in the corner and be quiet.” Argent turns back to Connor. “Grace has got a problem using her indoor voice.”

“We’re not indoors,” Grace insists. “The shelter’s in the yard, and that’s outside the house.”

Argent sighs and shakes his head, giving Connor an exaggerated long-suffering look. “You see how it is?”

“Yeah, I see,” says Connor. He logs one more bit of information. This cellar is not in the house, but in the yard. Which means if Connor manages to escape the cellar, he’s maybe a dozen yards closer to freedom. “Won’t it be hard to keep it a secret that I’m down here,” Connor asks, “once everyone else gets home?”

“No one else comin’,” Argent says. This was the news Connor was fishing for. He’s ambivalent about it. On the one hand, if there were other members of this household, someone might be rational enough to stop this before it gets any further. But on the other hand, a rational person would most likely turn Connor over to the authorities.

“Well, I figured you’ve got a house, so you must have a family. Parents maybe.”

“Dead,” says Grace. “Dead, dead, dead.”

Argent throws her a severe warning look before turning back to Connor. “Our mother died young. Our father kicked the ghost last year.”

“Good thing too,” adds Grace, grinning. “He was gonna unwind Argent’s sorry ass for the cash.”

In one smooth motion, Argent picks up a water bottle and hurls it at baseball speed at Grace. She ducks, but not fast enough, and the bottle careens off the side of her head, making her yelp with pain.

“HE WAS JUST SAYING THAT!” yells Argent. “I WAS TOO OLD TO BE UNWOUND.”

Grace holds the side of her head, but remains defiant. “Not too old for parts pirates. They don’t care how old you are!”

“DIDN’T I TELL YOU TO SHUT IT?” Argent takes a moment to let his fury dissipate, then looks for an ally in Connor. “Grace is like a dog. Sometimes you gotta shake a can at her.”

Connor can’t hold back his own seething fury. “That was more than shaking.” He looks over at Grace, still holding her head, but Connor is sure her spirit is hurt more than anything else.

“Yeah, well, unwinding is nothing to joke about,” says Argent. “You know that more than anyone. Truth be told, our father woulda unwound us both if he could, so he didn’t have our mouths to feed. But Grace wasn’t ever eligible since there’s laws against unwinding the feebleminded, and not even parts pirates’ll do it. He couldn’t do me either, because he needed me to take care of Grace. You see how it is?”

“Yeah, I see.”

“Low-cortical,” grumbles Grace. “I ain’t feebleminded. I’m low-cortical. It’s the less insulting way.”

Although low-cortical always sounded pretty insulting to Connor. He twists his wrists, gauging the tightness of the knots. Apparently Argent is very good with knots, because the ropes don’t give at all. His hands are tied individually, so he’ll have to squirm out of both sets of bonds to free himself. It makes Connor think of how he had tied Lev to a tree after Connor had first rescued him. He had kept Lev against his will to save his life. Well, thinks Connor, what goes around comes around. Now he’s at the mercy of someone who believes he’s holding Connor captive for his own good.

“Did you happen to keep the sandwiches I bought?” Connor asks. “Because I’m starving.”

“Nah. They’re still in the parking lot, I imagine.”

“Well, if I’m your guest, don’t you think it’s rude not to feed me?”

Argent considers this. “Yeah, that is rude. I’ll go fix you something.” He orders Grace to give Connor some water from their stockpile of survival rations. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Connor’s not sure if he’s talking to him or to Grace, but decides it doesn’t really matter.

After Argent is gone, Grace visibly relaxes, freed from her brother’s sphere of influence. She holds out the water bottle for Connor to take, then realizes he can’t take it. Grace unscrews the cap and pours it into Connor’s mouth. He gets a good gulp, although most of it spills on his pants.

“Sorry!” says Grace, almost in a panic. Connor knows why.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell Argent that I pissed myself. He can’t get mad at you for that.”