The Hollow City Read Free

hospital; I’m sure he’d appreciate a call.”
    I clench my fist tighter, trying to breathe evenly. “Just … please.”
    Dr. Murray pauses, then nods. “If that’s what you want.” He looks at another sheet in his folder. “It says here that your Klonopin was prescribed by Dr. Little, after your stay at Powell last year. Have you been taking your pills, Michael?”
    I nod. “Of course, Doctor.” It’s a lie—I fill my prescription every few weeks, just so no one asks questions, but I haven’t taken it in months. I’m not convinced the pills are part of the Plan, but I’m not taking any chances.
    “Excellent,” says Murray again, but I can see his smile falter. He doesn’t believe me. I scramble to find something else to soothe him—what’s in that file? It probably mentions my job at Mueller’s; the state got me that job. Maybe I can convince him I’m nothing to worry about.
    “You said I wasn’t injured in the fall, right?” I smile, trying to look normal. “Because I really need to get back to work soon—Mr. Mueller really relies on me.” There’s no response, so I keep going. “You know Mueller’s Bakery, on Lawrence? Best doughnuts in the city, you know. I’d be happy to send you a box once I get back there.” I liked working at Mueller’s: no punch-card machine, and no computers.
    “Yes,” says Dr. Murray, flipping to another page of the file, “it was Mr. Mueller who reported you missing.” He looks up. “It seems you didn’t show up for work for nearly two weeks and he got worried. Tell me, Michael, can you tell us where you’ve been during the last two weeks?”
    They got to Mueller. I’m nervous now, and I glance around again. No machines; the room might be clean.
    “I need to go, please.”
    “Do you remember where you’ve been?”
    I don’t. I rack my brain, trying to remember anything I can. Empty houses. A dark hole. I can’t remember. I still feel nauseous, like I’m thinking through syrup. Did they drug me? I look around again, trying to see what’s behind the bed.
    “Is everything okay, Michael?”
    I raise up on my arms, craning my neck around the edge of the bed, and recoil almost instantly, like I’ve been struck. An IV stand looms over my shoulder, with a small black box just inches behind my head. Red digital lines turn in circles as clear liquid drips slowly into my arm.
    I try to jump off the other side of the bed, but the doctors move in, holding me in place.
    “Easy, Michael. What’s wrong?”
    “I have to get out of here,” I say, grunting through clenched teeth. My chest feels painfully tight. I scrabble at my elbow, rip up the tape, and pull out the IV needle before they can stop me; pain lances through my arm.
    “Frank!” says Dr. Murray, and the big man by the door rushes over and grabs me by the shoulders.
    “No!” I shout, “No, it’s not like that, I just need to get out of here!”
    “Hold him down!”
    “What’s wrong, Michael?” asks Murray, leaning in over my face. “What happened?”
    “You don’t understand!” I plead. “Get it out, please, get it out of the room.”
    “Get what out?”
    “The IV stand, the monitor, whatever it is—get it out!”
    “Calm down, Michael, you’ve got to tell us what’s wrong!”
    “I told you what’s wrong, get it out of here!”
    “Dr. Pine,” says Dr. Murray, nodding at the IV stand, and the female doctor lets go of my leg and wheels the IV stand to the door, gathering up the trailing plastic tube as she moves it into the hall. It helps, but I can still feel it watching me. Do the doctors know? They can’t know—they can’t know or they wouldn’t be in here. That means they’re friends, but only if I act fast. My freakout over the IV monitor was too much, and I’ve tipped Them my hand. The woman comes back. We don’t have long.
    “What else is in here?” I ask, falling back against the pillow and allowing the orderly to hold me still. Don’t fight; they have to