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truth....
    â€œI tell you, the kids to
day
,” a woman with a Long Island accent shouted. Tom wasn’t altogether sure why she was shouting. She was resting her arms on the seat back right in front of his, staring down at him, peanut crumbs falling from her lips. “
Juvenile delinquents.
Every one of ’em. I have a troubled teen of my
own
at
home . . .
well, not really at home, in
jail.
If they’re not out drinkin’ their twelve packs of beer and having unprotected sex, then they’re out dropping their ecstasy at their rave parties and selling the
loco weed
to a bunch of fourth graders—”
    â€œI don’t think you understand,” Tom found himself interrupting.
    The woman frowned.
    He tore off his seat belt and stood, dropping the ice pack to the floor. He glanced around at the other passengers. They were all staring at him. He felt out of control, and it was an emotion he was ill equipped to handle. His life depended on control.
    He turned to the stewardess with solemn determination. “Where’s my daughter?”
    She blinked, then pointed toward the bathrooms at the back of the plane.
    Tom walked down the aisle to the locked bathroom and swung the curtain closed that divided the lavatories from the rest of the plane. It was the closest thing to privacy they’d have. He knocked gently on the door.
    â€œGaia? Are you all right?”
    â€œStay away,” came the harsh reply.
    Tom winced. There was such hatred, oozing from each word. “Gaia, please. I—”
    â€œGet away from the door,
Loki!
“she screamed. “
I know who you are.
You . . . you killed her. You killed her! How
could
you?”
    Tom staggered away from the door. It was as if a broadsword had been plunged through his chest. Even in the worst of his nightmares, he’d never imagined hearing his daughter speak those words. He knew very well which “her” Gaia meant.
    Katia. His sweet Katia. Gaia’s mother . . .
    â€œDear God,” he uttered involuntarily.
    He’s poisoned her mind. Oliver has poisoned her mind.
    Â 
GAIA
    I’ve always had a special place in my heart for rodents. I was obsessed with hamsters and gerbils when I was a kid. I was in love with my pet field mouse Jonathan.
    I think everyone figured I’d grow out of it. But it hasn’t happened yet.
    The fact of the matter is, sitting there curled up in a pathetic little ball in that heinous, industrially perfumed airplane bathroom, I realized just how close I felt to all those poor hamsters and gerbils I’d mercilessly forced into pethood. Because when you boil it down to its essential elements . . . our lives are really exactly the same. Meaning mine and the average rodent’s. We both live in the same ignorant hell.
    See, that poor little furry bastard thinks he’s free. He figures,
Hey. I’ve got free will. I can go wherever the hell I want. I can be whatever I want to be.
    I’m just gonna climb right into this little metal wheel here and head for the hills.
    Twenty minutes later that ignorant ball of fluff is sweating his ass off, panting like an Alaskan husky on a New York summer day. He figures he must be at least a mile farther in his life, maybe even two. Then he takes a look around and he sees the truth. He’s right there in the exact same little piece of shit wheel, in the exact same little piece of shit box.
    Free will? What a freaking joke. Sure, he’s got the will. It’s the
free
part that’s the problem—see, because he’s in a goddamn
box
. A big glass box. And sure, he can see the rest of the world. He can
imagine
being a part of the rest of the world. But a few steps forward and—
clank
—reality smacks him in his innocent little black-eyed face.
    That’s me.
    I’m that hamster running myass off in Loki’s little metal wheel, in Loki’s little glass box.
    How could I have been so blind? How did I not notice