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Daily a line forms at the front gate. Layers of protection built to ensure the safety of those hidden within. Dual gates at the entrance point, guards, backup guards, and protocols. As the world continues its downward spiral, tribalism grows, danger and death follow. There are a few pockets of sanctuary. Somehow, we have held it together, with a few exceptions. Minor rebellions extinguished quickly.
The problem, as a community, now maxed out, supplies and resources in short supply. The rules are unchanged. To enter, you must surrender everything and promise to be a fully engaged component, accepting whatever assigned task. Yes, a component, not a person.
Over the recent months, there has been a transition, where once assignments were random, drawn from a jar, has become systematized, codified. Once I spent my time in the kitchen. Now, a member of an identifiable team, a Scout Team, permanently hunting down provisions. With a price on our heads. Recent success expanding our reputations.
Still alone this morning, sitting, eating, minding my own business, wanting nothing to do with anyone, when a runner approaches with a message, “you’re wanted at the gate.”
Me? Could this be the source of the letter? I’ve done my best to remain invisible, a stranger among strangers.
As I approach, I see a one male in the cage. Visitor temporally confined, waiting to interview for entrance to the campus. I have a disability, a mild prosopagnosia, otherwise known as “face blindness.” When I say, have we met before, it’s a legit question.
“Morning.”
“Do you remember me?”
“Not really.”
“I have a message. So, take a good look because the next time you see me. You're a dead man and, FYI, I knew your wife. I know where your daughters are. And there’s a price on your head.”
I stuttered. “How? Who are you? What’cha want? Someone send you? Who sent you?” questions flowed unanswered.
“Tell whoever is in charge of this dump, the next time we arrive, expect trouble unless they turn you over.” He turned, mounted his horse, then waited for the exterior gate to be opened, and rode away, followed by several others, and never looked back.
Questions flowed. We? Who was he and why me? I did not recognize him and I know not why he had hunted me down. A wanted man? What the…
Here I stood, center stage. Pulled the letter from my pocket. In my hand, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker. I open it again, unfold a once crumpled sheet of paper and read: I know who you are, I know where you are; I knew your wife, and where your daughters are, sincerely. Unsigned.
The words, I knew your wife, burn into my mind. An ache I often feel returns. I have done my best to bury the past. To run from it. Yet, feelings still linger. Searching to find someone I likely would not even recognize.
Slouching, avoiding eye contact, I trudge back to the patio. Thoughts jumbled. How do I confront what I cannot recognize?
My daughters, alive, where are they? Are they nearby? After several years, would I recognize them? Of course I would!
I sit down, close my eyes and sigh. Quiet reigns for the moment. Around me, I can hear songbirds singing their stories, then pots/pans and voices from the kitchen preparing for lunch, voices at adjoining tables muted as gossip shared. “Did you hear? He’s a wanted man. A reward offered?”
Another, “He’s the one that murdered our doctor.”
“He’s leads that Scout Team, bunch of hired guns.”
Shh, “Whatever, they returned last night with a wagon full of provisions.”
“Yeah, but left a dozen dead, and now the law is huntin’ ‘em down.”
“Trouble a coming.”
The gossip continues. A past unrequited conversation surfaces. “You all have stories, consequential encounters. Some day we can sit around and reminisce. For now, I’ll just say it’s about family.”
Then Addison left, angry. “family, look around. Today this is family.” She walks away. They all walked away.
Team members arriving, each selecting their favorite seat. “Seems like you have a knack for finding yourself in a bind,” Addison suggests.
“It’s not my fault. Given the choice, I’d be in the mess prepping lunch, not creating a stir.”
“Are you familiar with prosopagnosia?” Frank stares. “Also known as face blindness. A mild case. What that means, because I see you daily or certainly weekly in the same setting, I can recognize you, recall names and shared history. But let’s say Brett leaves for several months, then returns and greets me. It’s quite possible I would not recognize him. Now, after meeting, if we interact, it is likely I will have a revelation and, oh yeah, and remember our shared histories.”
“Damn,” Frank said.
Addison snickers. “Simple solution. The next time someone asks if you remember them… shoot them.”
Muted laughs shared.
Looking at the note, what haunted me even more was the word, knew.
“I got this note.”
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