Page 91 of Unmanageable

Scottie Reed

3:15 PM

Cash: i miss you

Me: You’re at the gas pump.

Cash: it’s been at least four minutes

***

Two days later, I am stuffed back into the orange disaster that Cash calls our car, and after spending two hours driving across the state line toward Nashville, I am ready to die.

Cash hasn’t stopped smirking since we crossed the state line. Every time he looks over at me, that lazy, infuriating curve returns to his mouth.

“You’re doing it again,” I say, staring straight through the windshield at the endless stretch of asphalt.

“Doing what?”

“The smirk. It’s obnoxious.”

“I’m just driving the van, Scottie. Being your unmanageable client.”

“You’re thinking about the bear conversation,” I say, cutting my eyes sideways at him. “I can feel the judgment radiating off your shoulder. You’re mentally debating my survival skills against a grizzly again.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the bear,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I was actually thinking about the fact that you still haven’t given my shoes back. I’m starting to think you just like the look.”

“These are my legal property now, O’Connell. Emotional distress compensation for the Chattahoochee disaster.”

“Good to know,” he says, his grin deepening. “Well, get ready for the next stop. We’re five minutes away.”

The facility is a windowless concrete block tucked behind a wholesale plumbing warehouse. There is no sign on the door, only a small, matte-black logo of a single, unblinking human eye inside a triangle.

The second I push the heavy metal door open, a wave of distinct, herbal anxiety hits me.

The lobby doesn’t look like a gym. It looks like the waiting room of a high-end dermatology clinic mixed with a pretentious tech startup.

The walls are a blinding, seamless white, the lighting is blue, and there is a low, rhythmic hum vibrating through the floorboards.

Behind a curved concrete desk sits a guy in his early twenties with a shaved head, wearing a flawless, collarless gray tunic. He isn’t looking at a computer; he’s staring into a large, shallow bowl of black sand, moving a small wooden rake through it with absolute, hypnotic focus.

“Hi,” I say, my voice echoing slightly in the sterile space. “We’re here for the appointment. Finnian O’Connell.”

The guy doesn’t look up from the sand. He just raises his left hand, pointing a single, languid finger toward a set of double frosted-glass doors at the end of the hall. “The frequency is already set for him. Enter the collective.”

I step back, my heel catching on the edge of Cash’s giant, mud-crusted sneakers.

I lean into Cash’s arm, whispering out of the side of my mouth. “Cash, no. Absolutely not. This is a front for an international pyramid scheme for essential oils. We are leaving.”

“Relax,” Cash whispers back, his hand coming down onto the small of my back. “Yuri swears by this guy. He says he rewired three different Olympic biathletes after the winter games. If he can fix them, he can fix my reaction time.”

Before I can pull him back toward the van, the frosted doors slide open automatically with a pneumatic hiss, and a man steps out into the white light.

He is about fifty, entirely bald, with a beard trimmed into a precise, geometric square. He wears the same gray tunic as the receptionist, but his features a small silver eye embroidered on the collar.

“Welcome, Finnian. I am Master Calvin.”

“Master?” I repeat, stepping in front of Cash, my protective agent mode fully engaged. “Is that a legal certification or a spiritual designation, Calvin? Because I’m his representation, and if there are any waivers involving sensory deprivation tanks or forced meditation, I need to see the fine print.”