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"He's coming around."
  "Their eyes always do that."
  The world was blurry. There was a pressure in his right eye. He said, Urk.
  "Fuck!"
  "Get the—"
  "It's too late, forget it. Take it out."
  "It's not too late. Hold him." A shape grew in his vision. He smelled alcohol and stale urine. "Wil? Can you hear me?"
  He reached for his face, to brush away whatever was pressing there.
  "Get his—"
  Fingers closed around his wrist. "Wil, it's important that you not touch your face."
  "Why is he conscious?"
  "I don't know."
  "You fucked something up."
  "I didn't. Give me that."
  A rustling. He said, Hnnn. Hnnnn.
  "Stop moving." He felt breath in his ear, hot and intimate. "There is a needle in your eyeball. Do not move."
  He did not move. Something trilled, something electronic. "Ah,shit, shit."
  "What?"
  "They're here."
  "Already?"
  "Two of them, it says. We have to go."
  "I'm already in."
  "You can't do it while he's conscious. You'll fry his brain."
  "I probably won't."
  He said, "Pubbaleeese doo nut kill mee."
  An unsnapping of clasps. "I'm doing it."
  "You can't do it while he's conscious, and we're out of time, and he probably isn't even the guy."
  "If you're not helping, move out of the way."
  Wil said, "I . . . need . . . to . . . sneeze."
  "Sneezing would be a bad move at this point, Wil." Weight descended on his chest. His vision darkened. His eyeball moved slightly.
  "This may hurt."
  A snick. A low electronic whine. A rail spike drove into his brain.
  He screamed.
  "You're toasting him."
  "You're okay, Wil. You're okay."
  "He's . . . aw, he's bleeding from his eye."
  "Wil, I need you to answer a few questions. It's important that you answer truthfully. Do you understand?"
  No no no—
  "First question. Would you describe yourself as more of a dog person or cat person?"
  What—
  "Come on, Wil. Dog or cat?"
  "I can't read this. This is why we don't do it when they're conscious."
  "Answer the question. The pain stops when you answer the questions."
  Dog! he screamed. Dog please dog!
  "Was that dog?"
  "Yeah. He tried to say dog."
  "Good. Very good. One down. What's your favorite color?"
  Something chimed. "Fuck! Oh, fuck me!"
  "What?"
  "Wolf's here!"
  "That can't be right."
  "It says it right fucking here!"
  "Show me."
  Blue! he screamed into silence.
  "He responded. You see?"
  "Yes, I saw! Who cares? We have to leave. We have to leave."
  "Wil, I want you to think of a number between one and a hundred."
  "Oh, Jesus."
  "Any number you like. Go on."
  I don't know—
  "Concentrate, Wil."
  "Wolf is coming and you're dicking around with a live probe on the wrong guy. Think about what you're doing."
  Four I choose four—
  "Four."
  "I saw it."
  "That's good, Wil. Only two questions left. Do you love your family?"
  Yes no what kind of a—
  "He's all over the place."
  I don't have—I guess yes I mean yes everybody loves—
  "Wait, wait. Okay. I see it. Christ, that's weird."
  "One more question. Why did you do it?"
  What—I don't—
  "Simple question, Wil. Why'd you do it?"
  Do what do what what what—
  "Borderline. As in, borderline on about eight different segments. I'd be guessing."
  I don't know what you mean I didn't do anything I swear I've never done anything to anyone except except I once knew a girl—
  "There."
  "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
  A hand closed over his mouth. The pressure in his eyeball intensified, became a sucking. They were pulling out his eyeball. No: It was the needle, withdrawing. He shrieked, possibly. Then the pain was gone. Hands pulled him upward. He couldn't see. He wept for his poor abused eyeball. But it was still there. It was there.
  Blurry shapes loomed in fog. "What," Wil said.
  "Coarg medicity nighten comense," said the taller shape. "Hop on one foot."
  Wil squinted, confused.
  "Huh," said the shorter shape. "Maybe it is him."

They filled a sink with water and pushed his face into it. He surfaced, gasping. "Don't soak his clothes," said the tall man.
  He was in a restroom. An airport. He had come off the 3:05 p. m. from Chicago, where the aisle seat had been occupied by a large man in a Hawaiian shirt Wil couldn't bear to wake. At first, the restroom had appeared closed for cleaning, but the janitor had removed the sign and Wil had jagged toward it gratefully. He had reached the urinal, unzipped, experienced relief.
  The door had opened. A tall man in a beige coat had come in. There were half a dozen free urinals, Wil at one end, but the man chose the one beside him. Moments passed and the tall man did not pee. Wil, emptying at high velocity, felt a twinge of compassion. He had been there. The door had opened again. A second man entered and locked the door.
  Wil had put himself back in his pants. He had looked at the man beside him, thinking—this was funny, in retrospect—that whatever was happening here, whatever specific danger was implied by a man entering a public restroom and fucking locking it, at least Wil and the tall man were in it together. At least it was two against one. Then he had realized Shy Bladder Guy's eyes were calm and deep and kind of beautiful, actually, but the key point being calm as in unsurprised, and Shy Bladder Guy had seized his head and propelled him into the wall.
  Then the pain, and questions.
  "Have to get this blood out of his hair," said the short man. He attacked Wil's face with paper towels. "His eye looks terrible."
  "If they get close enough to see his eyes, we have bigger problems."
  The tall man was wiping his hands with a small white cloth, giving attention to each finger. He was thin and dark-skinned and Wil was no longer finding his eyes quite so beautiful. He was getting more of a cold, soulless kind of vibe. Like those eyes could watch terrible things and not look away. "So, Wil, you with us? You can walk and talk?"
  "Fuck," he said, "orrffff." It didn't come out like he meant. His head felt loose.
  "Good," said the tall man. "So here's the deal. We need to get out of this airport in minimum time with minimum fuss. I want your cooperation with that. If I fail to receive it, I'm going to make things bad for you. Not because I have anything against you, particularly, but I need you motivated. Do you understand?"
  "I'm not . . ." He searched for the word. Rich? Kidnappable? "Anybody. I'm a carpenter. I make decks. Balconies. Gazebos."
  "Yes, that's why we're here, your inimitable work with gazebos. You can forget the act. We know who you are. And they know who you are, and they're...