BRAINRUSH, a Thriller by Richard Bard

mirror hung on the far wall, making the room look bigger. Several brass floor lamps provided light.
    Jake’s brain absorbed the room in an instant, but it was the young boy and girl that riveted his attention.
    They sat at one of the small tables. The little girl was maybe six or seven, wearing a pink button-front sweater over a soft nightshirt and matching pajama bottoms printed with tiny daisies. Her feet were covered in fluffy pink slippers with little rabbit ears flopping down either side. Seeing Jake, her big brown eyes went wide. She tilted her head down so her long dark hair swept forward to hide her face. Abandoning her colored pencils, she scurried over to the piano, a small teddy bear in tow. She climbed up on the bench, making a point of not looking in Jake’s direction. She sat the bear next to her and her tiny hands began to glide over the ivory keys. Her eyes remained closed while she played. Tension seemed to drain from her little form as she swayed back and forth with the music. The unfamiliar tune was soft and haunting. 
    It was beautiful.
    The young boy said, “Sarafina won’t talk to you.” He wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a black Star Wars T-shirt. He was a little pudgy, with deep olive skin, a hawk nose, and dark penetrating eyes. There was no fear there.
    “Why not?” Jake said, stepping into the room and sitting in an easy chair next to the boy’s table.
    The boy prattled on as if Jake wasn’t there. “She never speaks to anyone, ever. She’s Italian. I don’t know if she even speaks English.” While he spoke, the young boy remained fixated on one of the colored pencils on the table. He spun it like a top, over and over.
    “Besides, she likes music, not words, and she hasn’t been fixed yet. But I’m fixed, see?” He turned his head around and separated his curly dark hair to reveal a well-healed, four-inch scar at the back of his skull.
    Jake gasped. He reached up involuntarily to the small wound at the back of his own head. Just a puncture, not a long scar.
    Not yet.
    The boy went back to spinning his pencil as though it fueled his ability to talk nonstop.
    “That’s why I can speak English. I just learned it. My name is Ahmed. I’m eleven. Why are you here? Are you sick too? You’re the first grown-up that has spent the night here. What’s your name? Do you like languages or numbers?”
     “Whoa, there, big fella,” Jake said, turning his chair toward the boy. “Slow down a bit. One question at a time, all right? My name is Jake. I’m glad to meet you, Ahmed.”
    Jake extended his hand for a shake. Ahmed instantly scooted his wooden chair back with his feet and threw his hands behind his back, his face screwed tight in apprehension. “No touching!”
    Pulling his hand back, palms patting the air, Jake said, “Okay, no touching. I’m sorry.”
    The boy relaxed. He was quiet for a moment.
    In his recent library studies, Jake recalled that it was not uncommon for some autistic children to have an inherent fear of physical contact. Some of them went their entire lives without the benefit of physical comfort from another human being. 
    That was just one of the many sets of behavior that was possible with autism and other spectrum disorders. There were many others, like uneven motor skills, using gestures instead of words, tantrums, laughing or crying for no apparent reason, or acting as if deaf. The list went on and on.
    He remembered reading that children and adults with autism can function normally and show improvement with appropriate treatment and education. But experimental brain implants? On children?
    These two kids were obviously part of Francesca’s school, part of the research at the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies. Francesca and her goons kidnapped Jake to be here with these children? It just didn’t make any sense. He rubbed the wound at the back of his head again.
    What the hell kind of tests had she run on him?
    Jake looked back at the boy. He was back