Internment(64)

When we’re far enough from the garden, I ask Jake where we’re going. “The Director wants to see you,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t look me in the eye, either. As we walk silently, I glance down and see his hands balled into fists at his sides.

I expected the Director to seek me out after the Incident, but when a few days had passed, I assumed he was no longer interested in me. I was wrong.

“You won’t be alone with him. Red Cross observers will be present—they don’t have any power, but you’re still under eighteen, and that gives you at least a little protection, especially since the Director is wary about more bad press. I’ll be right outside the door.” Jake’s jaw tenses as he speaks. “The Director’s security detail will be at his side.”

“What does he want with me? What’s he going to do?” I’m parched, and my voice cracks.

Jake takes a breath and shakes his head. “Question you. You’ll be okay because there will be observers in there, but be careful. Don’t say anything rash. Don’t give him the upper hand. Don’t give him an excuse to target you more than he already has. I know it’s not fair to put it all on you, but the Director has no real accountability. I’m sorry I can’t be inside with you. I have to go along with orders if I want to keep his trust. He could have me transferred, and I don’t want you to be alone in here.”

“I understand. You have your orders. You also have his confidence; we can’t blow that.” I’m trying to sound determined, if only to convince myself that I’ll be okay, but I feel like I’m about to face a dragon and I’m without a sword.

Jake pauses and looks into my eyes. “I’m not the only one on your side. You have courage. Hold fast to it. Don’t let him bully you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

When Jake opens the door to the Director’s office, I’m greeted by a blast of cold air. It’s a freezer in here but a furnace outside. We read Dante’s Inferno in English class, and I always thought it was odd that the very pit of hell is ice—the absence of all hope and light and love. So, obviously, the Director’s office is an icebox. Of course.

He’s seated at a desk and motions for me to sit in a chair facing him. He dismisses Jake, who glances at me, the distress clear in his eyes, and steps out. I slump into the chair and take a few deep breaths before straightening and throwing my shoulders back. Two of the Director’s security detail are stationed in the corners of the rectangular room, behind the large wooden desk. Two others—a man and a woman dressed in khakis and Red Cross T-shirts—sit, with notebooks in hand, in chairs against the wall. The Director’s office is in the administration building—basically, it’s a wing of the Hub connected by a narrow, windowless hallway. Admin is a single-level modular prefab building with wide gray paneling and a flat white roof. A large plate-glass window offers the Director a view of the main entrance, where I see the mass of protestors and news trucks. I grin.

“Something funny, Miss Amin?” the Director asks, drawing my attention away from the window.

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Perhaps you’re enjoying the show these shiftless millennials and hippie protestors are putting on for the press. It was, after all, the purpose behind the Incident at the Mess, wasn’t it? And your little video?”

“No, sir.”

“‘No, sir’? That’s all you have to say for yourself? After your little stunt disrupted the peace in our community here? People were hurt, thanks to your actions.”

“Yes, sir.” The Director’s face reddens. If he’s trying to keep his cool, he’s failing miserably.

“Miss Amin, you’re beginning to try my patience. Yes, sir, what?”

“Yes, sir, people were hurt. But that had to do with your actions, not mine. I didn’t punch Soheil, sir.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I fear I’ve made a grave error. A deadly one. I should be filtering my thoughts, but my anger overrides my fear. It might not be smart, but it’s my only way forward.

He pounds his fist on top of his desk and stands up. “How dare you? Do you know who I am? What I can do?”

He towers over me, and I shrink into myself a little. I close my eyes for a second. Breathe. Prepare. But that’s a joke. There’s no way I can prepare myself for what might happen. “Yes, sir. You’re the Director of an internment camp where American citizens have been illegally imprisoned.” I hear the scratch of the observers’ pens on their notepads; I give them a sideways glance.

“You think these observers will save you?” The Director points at them. “They can’t. The Red Cross can monitor and take all the notes they want. They can’t interfere with the laws of this nation. And Mobius and all our rules here comply with federal law. Should you get a paper cut, though, I’m sure they will generously offer you a bandage.”

The observers shift in their seats. One whispers something I can’t hear. I don’t look back. I’m too scared to take my eyes off the Director.

He sits in his chair again. He raises a finger in the air and wags it like he’s about to make a brilliant observation. “Tell you what. I am going to give you the opportunity to save yourself and some of your friends who were involved in your ill-conceived, childish attempt at protesting during dinner. Who organized it? What else are they planning? Who else is involved? If you cooperate, I can make sure that you and your family are taken care of.”