Borderline by Allan Stratton Page A

What—?”
    They hustle him down the stairs, out the front door. The dogs follow, straining their leads.
    â€œWhy???” Dad cries out. He disappears into the night.
    In the distance, sirens. Cops. Andy. He must’ve made the call.
    Now lights. Lights everywhere. I blink in the glare. See an army of agents tromping up and down the stairs. Dad’s computer carted away. His scanner. Drawers. Files.
    And I’m suddenly airborne. Up on my toes, my arms half out of their sockets. A hand grips my head from behind. Forces it down into my chest. I’m whirled around, forced to the kitchen, down the basement stairs into my room.
    Marty’s face is on my monitor. His eyes go wild when he sees me. Somebody yanks out the plug. The screen goes blank. Oh my god! They’re taking my computer.
    â€œWait! Don’t! It’s got my homework!”
    It’s got my homework?
    Two men with rubber gloves empty my desk. Others tear down my posters, rip open my mattress.
    â€œWhat are you looking for? What?”
    Fingers dig under my collarbone. I crumple.
    My chair gets spun from behind. I face a bare wall.
    Through the open door, I hear crashes upstairs in the kitchen and family room, and down the corridor in Dad’s workshop. A whine of drills. A smash of axes, maybe crowbars. A tide of agents floods by with plastic bagsfrom the downstairs freezer, plus Dad’s toolbox and who knows what else.
    Are the men who wrecked my room still here? Is anybody here? Am I alone? I want to turn around, to see, to know, but I’m afraid. I’m—
    I smell the stink of stale cigar smoke. Hear my two folding chairs scrape across the floor. One stops behind me, to my left. The other bangs down to my right.
    Silence.
    Whoever’s there, they’re staring at the center of the back of my head. It’s as if my skull is burning. Like their eyes are drilling their way into my brain.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    A long pause. Then a man’s voice from the chair to my left: “We know everything, Sami.”
    I hesitate. “How do you know my name?”
    â€œYou weren’t listening, Sami. We know everything.”
    The man to my right shifts in his chair. His butt makes a sound on the plastic seat cover. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?” Wait, I was wrong. This voice, it isn’t a man—it’s a woman. “If you tell us, it’ll make things easier,” she says.
    I think: If you know everything, what can I tell you? “Can I turn around?”
    â€œNo.”
    I try to picture them. I can’t. They’re like voices in a nightmare, at the end of a dark alley; wherever you turn to run, it’s always the alley, with them at the end of it.
    â€œWhy are you here?” I whisper.
    â€œYou know.”
    â€œI don’t!”
    The man snorts. I hear him get up, walk slowly around my room. Every so often he stops. Why? What’s got his attention?
    â€œAm I in trouble?”
    â€œNot if you cooperate,” the woman says.
    â€œHow? I don’t even know what you want.”
    â€œThe truth,” the man says. He’s over by my dresser.
    â€œThe truth about what?” The snake slithers in my guts. I try not to panic. “Is this about Toronto?” I want to bite off my tongue.
    â€œToronto?” the man says. “What do you know about Toronto?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThen why did you say it?”
    â€œIt just came out.”
    â€œFunny thing to think of, Toronto.” He sits. “Funny thing to say, out of the blue.”
    â€œIt’s not,” I say. “It’s—Me and my dad—We were going to see the Jays and the Leafs, and—Look, should I have a lawyer?”
    â€œWhy do you need a lawyer?” the woman asks.
    â€œBecause, I guess, I mean, I thought—”
    â€œTell us,” she says calmly. “We don’t want to make things hard for