Transcription by Ike Hamill

he kept going on his current trajectory, he might not even be able to function in a few months. It would have to stop.
    When he reached the road, he was trudging.
    A car honked at him when he tried to cross.  
    Back in his apartment, he forced himself to eat some peanut butter before he went to bed.

CHAPTER 10: PRISON
     

     
    Diary of Thomas Hicks, 1977

    T HE SHADOWS ARE MORE than halfway across the space between the cells when I start to scream. At first, I’m simply screaming out of pure terror. My sound is senseless notes, not shaped into words. My voice echoes back, mocking me. The reverberation sounds like laughter.  
    One bright, sane thought lights up my brain—Officer Fradeaux!
    I begin screaming for help.
    “Help! Help me! Officer Fradeux, please!”
    I repeat myself over and over as the shadows continue their creep. I don’t want to leave any space between my words. If there’s space, I’ll hear the laughter of my own voice bouncing back. I’ll hear the words in the chalk chatter.
    When I finally hear the thunk of the metal latch, it’s melodic. My salvation is coming. I wait and listen for the footsteps. I don’t hear them. Instead, I hear the chalk noise again. It starts strong and then slows immediately. Words break free from the noise. First, I realize that I know the voice. It takes a whole sentence before I recognize that the voice is my own.
    “We’re the only real one. The rest are shadows and reflections. We have to banish the shadows with light, and smash the mirrors before we can find truth. It’s incumbent upon us to find the truth. It’s the very purpose of our existence.”
    There’s more, but I don’t feel that I can accurately represent it. The words, on their surface, are meaningless, but there’s something in them that I can understand. There’s a powerful emotion that resonates. It’s the idea that I hold a solemn responsibility. The universe depends on me to expose truth, in its purest form. I’m the only one with the power to do so. Maybe all reporters feel a version of this—that they have a responsibility to humanity to find and document the truth because everyone else is either unwilling or unable.
    I begin to feel a sense of duty and pride.  
    I know that I cannot turn away from this responsibility. I will take it, and do whatever I can to do the job with integrity, until I take my dying breath. What’s the job? I have to expose the hypocrisy of life. I have to demonstrate that to live, one has to be on the path to death. To embrace your vitality, one has to exist on the very precipice of losing it. It will be a difficult, but noble undertaking.
    A million images flash through my mind.
    I picture a woman, alone in her bedroom, getting ready for a good night’s sleep. She’s caught up in the minutiae of her routine, and ignoring the miracle of her own beating heart. What could rescue her from wasting the precious resource of time? She needs to understand her own mortality. She needs an intruder to break down her door and scare some sense back into her. Only then will she appreciate how precious her time in this world is.
    As I understand the pattern emerging from my visions, I resolve to become that agent of change. I will rescue the victims of mediocrity. I will become a hot red tornado of blood.  

    #   #   #   #   #

    He’s got me by the arm.
    I struggle to get free, but his grip is too strong.  
    I realize that we’re walking. I’ve got my notebook gripped so tight that it feels like my fingers will become fused to the cover.
    I tune into what he’s saying mid-sentence.
    “…and she’ll come pick you up, and everything will be right as rain.”
    “What happened? Where are we going?”
    “I’m taking you to the office, Mr. Hicks.”
    “But why? Wait. I’m not done with my research.”
    “I don’t care what you signed on for, I’m going to have Ed check you out while we’re waiting. If he finds anything unusual, you’re getting an