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At times she felt almost…no, not guilty. Why should she feel guilty about doing her job, and doing it well? But she would admit to a certain…a certain regret that the circumstances should have been what they were. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. It was just…circumstances. And sometimes, they were unfortunate.
She had looked at him on the video screen and seen that he was awake, or close to it. She wondered what kind of shape he would be in. She had little idea of what they were doing to him now; his care had been more or less turned over to people higher up than she was. They issued the orders now, she just carried them out. She had done this work before, and was good at it.
She watched him turn his head on the pillow. His eyes were open, so he was awake, but that didn’t mean much anymore. His mouth was moving, but if he was actually saying something, it was too low for the microphone to pick up.
She got up and went down the hall to his room. She dialed the code on the keypad and the door buzzed open.
She crossed the room and went to stand beside his bed. His eyes were wide open and she was struck again by their color, such an unusual blue. They were even more vivid in the room’s harsh, white light. She made a mental note to tell the station attendant to turn down the light in this room. There was no possible reason for this constant glare. She made another mental note to clear that action with her supervisors, first.
“Casey,” she said. “Casey, how are you feeling?”
He did not respond, and his eyes did not turn to her. She did not think he was ignoring her; she doubted if he even knew she was there. His lips were moving rapidly, but she could only make out a faint, breathy whisper. She’d been in Italy years ago, and had visited a village church famous for its frescoes. A small group of women had been in the church, muttering over their rosaries. The sound of their voices had been just like his, the same quick, repetitive susurrus.
“What’s that, Casey?” she asked. “What are you saying?”
She leaned down to listen, as close to him as she dared. He’d bitten her once before and she knew that he could be wily and quick, and that even now, he still had enough fight left in him to merit caution.
Closer to him, she could hear what he was saying.
“My name is Casey Martin Connor,” he whispered. “I was born on May 23, 1982. I live at 2 Elm Street, in Herrington, Ohio. My mother is Elise Connor. My father is Frank Connor. My name is Casey Martin Connor. I was born on May 23, 1982. I live at…”
She straightened and looked down at him. Farther away, his litany had again become nothing but a meaningless breath-sound.
It was remarkable, really, the persistence of self, of identity. She thought about writing a study on that topic, when this assignment was over, then instantly rejected the idea. The subject had already been covered at great length in other reports that analyzed the mental condition of long-term hostages and prisoners of war. They all reported the same findings: that identity was always the last thing to go. She wouldn’t be breaking any new ground. Besides, Casey Connor was neither a hostage nor a prisoner of war. He was…was…
Her mind searched for a definition but could not find one that fit. Victim of circumstances seemed to come closest, but she didn’t like that word, victim . The circumstances just were what they were, there were no victims here. And yet for a moment, that thing that felt like regret (guilt) twisted in her chest.
She almost reached out and touched his forehead, then remembered what his teeth had felt like. Instead, she slipped two fingers into his palm. He instantly stopped speaking and shuddered, and she knew that he would have pulled his hand away if it had not been in restraint. His eyes maintained their fixed stare as he lay there, shallowly panting.
“Your name is Casey Martin Connor,” she whispered to him. “And these are very unfortunate circumstances. Aren’t they, Casey?”
Casey did not answer; she had not expected him to. She took her fingers from his hand, but he did not resume speaking. She turned and buzzed herself out of the room.
On her way down the hall, she checked back in at the video room. The screen showed her that Casey’s lips were moving again.
The attendant, bored, asked, “What’s he saying in there?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “Just nonsense.”
The attendant raised an eyebrow and went back to reading the newspaper. She glanced at Casey one last time, and decided to call it a day.