green. Martyr swallowed and said in a near whisper, “I am Martyr. J:3:3.”
Her sculpted eyebrows sank over her eyes. Martyr focused on the sprinkle of tiny dots on the top of her cheeks and nose, dots the same color as her hair.
“What kind of name is that?” she asked.
Her question knotted his thoughts. His identification was not acceptable? “It’s what I’m called.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Farm.”
“What farm?”
“Jason Farms.”
The daughter sucked in a sharp breath. “No. That’s not possible. How did you get in this house?”
“I rode in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car.”
“Doctor? In the back of the Silverado?”
What was a Silverado? “I-I do not know.”
“Just how do you know my dad?”
“Dr. Goyer works at the Farm. I met him the day he wore his orange necktie. I touched it.”
The daughter wrinkled her lips. Martyr must have said something incorrect. Perhaps neckties were forbidden in this facility too.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “How did you get to the Farm?”
Martyr cocked his head to the side. He did not understand the question.
She asked another. “When did you first go there?”
“I have always lived on the Farm.”
“No!” The daughter jumped up and strode across the room. The dog leapt from her arms, arched its back in the air, then hopped onto the bed. When the daughter reached the door, she turned and strode back to face him.
Martyr shrank back into the corner. He had somehow upset her again. He did not want her to be upset. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are
you
sorry?”
“I angered you. I shouldn’t have ridden in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car and come into his facility, but the snow was freezing my feet. The door was open, and I wanted to get warm.”
Tears flooded the daughter’s eyes. She walked back to the door, leaned against it, and slid down against the picture of the frizzy-haired man until she sat on the floor, staring at Martyr, her eyes out of focus like Hummer’s.
“JD forgot his books and he had some homework due tomorrow, so he called …”
Martyr could not look away from the daughter’s face. It made his heart race. Round cheeks, creamy skin peppered with dots, glossy lips, and her hair—bright and wild, it swung soft and long and curly around her face when she moved. He wanted very badly to touch it.
Something pounded softly outside the door. The daughter scrambled to her knees and poked a button on the doorknob. Shestood and whispered, “Get over here. It’s my dad.” She lunged forward, grabbed his hand, and pulled. “Come on.”
Her touch inflicted a pleasant nausea. He was much taller than she was. The top of her head reached his chin. How was it she had such power over his senses?
“Abby, honey? Can I come in?” Dr. Goyer’s voice came from the other side of the door.
The daughter herded Martyr into a tiny closet filled with clothing. He stood in awe of so many colors and textures. She pushed the door shut, closing him in darkness, but the door swung slowly back open, letting in a stripe of light. Martyr could see the daughter scramble to her bed and find the noisy red device. She opened it and began to push on it with her thumbs.
Something pounded on the door again, the doorknob rattled, and Dr. Goyer said, “Honey, open the door. We need to talk.”
The daughter opened her mouth like she was about to respond, but instead started pushing buttons on her red device again.
Dr. Goyer’s voice carried from outside the room. “Because I said so.”
She pushed more buttons.
“That wasn’t a fortune cookie answer! Listen, I know I’m gone a lot, but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like.”
The daughter rolled her eyes, and began hitting buttons again.
“True,” Dr. Goyer said, even though the daughter hadn’t spoken, “but you’re not old enough to have a boyfriend over without supervision either.”
The daughter gasped. “He’s
not
my boyfriend!” she yelled. “We’re
Her sculpted eyebrows sank over her eyes. Martyr focused on the sprinkle of tiny dots on the top of her cheeks and nose, dots the same color as her hair.
“What kind of name is that?” she asked.
Her question knotted his thoughts. His identification was not acceptable? “It’s what I’m called.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Farm.”
“What farm?”
“Jason Farms.”
The daughter sucked in a sharp breath. “No. That’s not possible. How did you get in this house?”
“I rode in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car.”
“Doctor? In the back of the Silverado?”
What was a Silverado? “I-I do not know.”
“Just how do you know my dad?”
“Dr. Goyer works at the Farm. I met him the day he wore his orange necktie. I touched it.”
The daughter wrinkled her lips. Martyr must have said something incorrect. Perhaps neckties were forbidden in this facility too.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “How did you get to the Farm?”
Martyr cocked his head to the side. He did not understand the question.
She asked another. “When did you first go there?”
“I have always lived on the Farm.”
“No!” The daughter jumped up and strode across the room. The dog leapt from her arms, arched its back in the air, then hopped onto the bed. When the daughter reached the door, she turned and strode back to face him.
Martyr shrank back into the corner. He had somehow upset her again. He did not want her to be upset. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are
you
sorry?”
“I angered you. I shouldn’t have ridden in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car and come into his facility, but the snow was freezing my feet. The door was open, and I wanted to get warm.”
Tears flooded the daughter’s eyes. She walked back to the door, leaned against it, and slid down against the picture of the frizzy-haired man until she sat on the floor, staring at Martyr, her eyes out of focus like Hummer’s.
“JD forgot his books and he had some homework due tomorrow, so he called …”
Martyr could not look away from the daughter’s face. It made his heart race. Round cheeks, creamy skin peppered with dots, glossy lips, and her hair—bright and wild, it swung soft and long and curly around her face when she moved. He wanted very badly to touch it.
Something pounded softly outside the door. The daughter scrambled to her knees and poked a button on the doorknob. Shestood and whispered, “Get over here. It’s my dad.” She lunged forward, grabbed his hand, and pulled. “Come on.”
Her touch inflicted a pleasant nausea. He was much taller than she was. The top of her head reached his chin. How was it she had such power over his senses?
“Abby, honey? Can I come in?” Dr. Goyer’s voice came from the other side of the door.
The daughter herded Martyr into a tiny closet filled with clothing. He stood in awe of so many colors and textures. She pushed the door shut, closing him in darkness, but the door swung slowly back open, letting in a stripe of light. Martyr could see the daughter scramble to her bed and find the noisy red device. She opened it and began to push on it with her thumbs.
Something pounded on the door again, the doorknob rattled, and Dr. Goyer said, “Honey, open the door. We need to talk.”
The daughter opened her mouth like she was about to respond, but instead started pushing buttons on her red device again.
Dr. Goyer’s voice carried from outside the room. “Because I said so.”
She pushed more buttons.
“That wasn’t a fortune cookie answer! Listen, I know I’m gone a lot, but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like.”
The daughter rolled her eyes, and began hitting buttons again.
“True,” Dr. Goyer said, even though the daughter hadn’t spoken, “but you’re not old enough to have a boyfriend over without supervision either.”
The daughter gasped. “He’s
not
my boyfriend!” she yelled. “We’re
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