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Mr. Ludlum nodded to Doc, who administered two more brisk slaps. Finn’s ears rang. His cheeks burned. The tears came. “You can’t do that! Why would you do that? You made a mistake!”

“I can do it.” Mr. Ludlum opened his folder and tossed a pamphlet across the desk. “Open-handed slaps are a world-approved technique for advanced interrogation. I think you should read that carefully before we talk again. See what other techniques we might decide to employ. Take him back, you two. Mr. Bobby Donovan has some homework to do.”

“You don’t even know who you’re—”

He was jerked to his feet, Pando on one side and Doc on the other. Pando picked up the pamphlet and stuffed it into the waistband of Finn’s jeans. “Come along, Bobby-O,” he said.

“Ta-ta,” said Mr. Ludlum. “Be a friend to all and all will be a friend to you.”

With that Finn was hustled from the study with his cheeks burning and tears streaming from his eyes.

Back in his room—his cell—Finn pulled the pamphlet free of his jeans and looked at it. There was no binding, not even a staple. It was just a few sheets of paper folded together. On the front, smearily printed and slightly askew, was this: WORLD-APPROVED TECHNEEKS FOR ADVANCED INTEROGATION.

“Are you shitting me?” Finn asked. He spoke in a whisper, so the mikes—surely there were mikes as well as the camera staring down—wouldn’t pick it up. His first thought was that the “pamphlet” was a joke. But the slaps hadn’t been a joke. His face still burned.

The first page of the pamphlet: OPEN-HANDED SLAPS, OKAY!

The second page: SLEEP DEPERVATION TECHNEEKS (LOUD MUSIC, SOUND FX, ETC.), OKAY!

Third page: THREATS (TO FAMILY MEMBERS, FUCK-BUDDIES, ETC.), OKAY!

Fourth: ENEMAS, OKAY!

Fifth: STRESS POSITIONS, OKAY!

Sixth: WATERBORDING, OKAY!

Seventh: FIST HITTING, FOOT PADDLING, BURNING (WITH CIGARETTES OR LITERS), RAPE & SEXUAL ABUSE, NOT OKAY!

Eighth: IF NOT SPECIFICALLY MENTIONED, PROBABLY OKAY!

The rest of the pages were blank.

“They can’t even fucking spell,” Finn whispered. But if it wasn’t a mistake, or someone’s macabre idea of a joke, it could mean he was in the hands of psychopaths. The idea was more terrifying than believing it was a case of mistaken identity. That could be resolved.

One of his grandma’s aphorisms (she had many) came to mind: Most people will be reasonable if you speak soft and give them a chance.

Because he had no better idea, he dropped the pamphlet on the floor, got up, and faced the camera. He spoke soft. “My name is Finn Murrie. I live at 19 Rowan Tree Road with my grandma and my two sisters, Colleen and Marie. My mother is away on business, but she can be reached on her mobile at…” Finn reeled off the number. “All of them will tell you I am who I say I am. Then…”

Then what?

Inspiration came. Or logic. Maybe both.

“Then you can put a bag over my head, even knock me out again if you feel like you need to, and drop me off on some random streetcorner. You can do that because I don’t know who you are and I don’t know where this is. I don’t have no briefcase and I don’t have no papers. Just, you know, be reasonable. Please.”

He’d lost track of how many times he’d said please. Quite a few, for sure.

Finn went back to the cot and lay down. He began to drift. Just as he was slipping away, Anthrax came ripping out of the speakers: “Madhouse.”

He almost fell off the cot. He covered his ears. After two minutes that seemed much longer, the music stopped. He no longer felt sleepy, but he felt plenty hungry. Would they feed him? Maybe not. Starving a prisoner wasn’t specifically mentioned, so it was PROBABLY OKAY!

He slept.

They gave him four hours.

Then they came for him.

Finn didn’t see if it was Doc and Pando or some of the other ones. Before he realized what was happening, he was hauled to his feet, still mostly asleep. A bag came down over his head. It smelled vaguely of chickendirt. He was propelled forward and slammed into the side of the door.