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He descended the basement stairs with practiced care, balancing the plate of sandwiches he had just prepared. Yes, he’d already delivered food today, but he had a new member of his flock. He knew that upon waking up from the drug, the girls were typically ravenous. He wanted to make sure she felt taken care of…and didn’t want the others to feel neglected. So if they wanted a double helping today, they could have one.

The wooden steps creaked beneath his feet, a sound that had become as familiar to him as breathing. The bare concrete walls seemed to draw in around him as he made his way down, the single halogen bulb casting harsh shadows that danced with his movement.

He found comfort in this routine—this daily act of providing sustenance to his flock. That's how he thought of them: lost sheep he had gathered and saved from the precipice of eternal damnation. The peanut butter sandwiches weren't much, but they were what his mother had made him when he was young. Simple food for simple needs. He remembered how she would cut them diagonally, telling him that food made with love tasted better. He did the same now, though he knew his charges wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

The basement air hung thick with the mingled scents of dampness, fear, and human confinement. He thought he also smelled the tangy sting of urine. Three identical cages lined the far wall, separated by thin wooden partitions he had built himself. Each cage measured precisely four feet by four feet—just enough room for an adult to stand or lie down. He had measured carefully, wanting to provide adequate space while ensuring security. The metal mesh of the cages gleamed dully in the artificial light, the product of hours spent reinforcing them to withstand desperate attempts at escape.

Approaching the first cage, he kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the sandwiches in his hand rather than the woman inside. He had learned early on not to look at their faces, not to engage with their humanity too directly. Names, faces, stories—these were dangerous things that could lead to attachment. And attachment would make his holy work impossible. Besides…each of them were pretty in their own way, and he was only a man. He, too, could easily fall into temptation. And he could not allow for such a thing.

He started at the far end this time, hoping the new arrival would slowly warm to him if she saw how kind he was to the others. At the far end of the room, the blonde woman in the first cage sat huddled in the corner, her unwashed hair hanging like a curtain over her face. He could smell her fear, sharp and acrid, mixing with the musty air of the basement. Through the larger opening at the bottom of the cage—carefully sized to allow food but prevent escape—he slid the sandwich.

"Your bucket," he said softly, his voice carrying the gentle tone of a concerned pastor. "Does it need emptying?"

She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement that sent a slight tremor through her matted hair. He nodded, satisfied. She had been here the longest of his current flock, nearly four months now. Her spirit had been properly molded, shaped by isolation and dependence into something closer to acceptance. Just like Carla had been, before circumstance forced his hand.

Moving to the second cage, he braced himself. This one still burned with defiance, her rage a palpable force that radiated through the metal mesh. She had been here three weeks, and her spirit remained unbroken. As he bent to slide her new sandwich through the opening—even though the first was still there, untouched—she spat at him. It was a direct hit to his face, the glob of saliva landing on his cheek.

He wiped it away with the sleeve of his cardigan, maintaining his composure. The action reminded him of his years as a youth pastor, dealing with rebellious teenagers who would eventually see the light. "Your bucket?" he asked, his voice unchanged, showing neither anger nor disgust.

"Go to hell," she snarled, the words echoing off the concrete walls.

He accepted her hatred without reaction. She would learn, just as the others had. Just as poor Carla had learned before circumstances forced him to execute her. He hadn't wanted to do it—the single bullet between her eyes had felt like a failure on his part. But his mission required difficult choices. With only three cages and a new lost soul in need of salvation, he had no choice but to make room.

The third cage held his newest charge, captured just last night. She cowered at his approach, pressing herself against the back of the cage as if trying to melt into the metal mesh. Her terror was fresh, untouched by time or routine. As he pushed her sandwich through the opening, she began to cry, soft whimpers that spoke of absolute despair. He saw that she had nibbled at her first sandwich, but nothing more.

"I have no intention of hurting you," he assured her, allowing himself to look at her trembling form for just a moment. "Dear child, I only want to help. Now, I do need to tell you that the woman who used to be in your place…she was difficult. “He frowned here, as if the words he was speaking broke his heart. “I had to chain her to the bars because she causes so much fuss. Cuffs around her wrists…chains…I hated to do it, but I had to. I don’t want to treat any of you this way, but if I have to…well, I will. But let’s just hope it won’t come to that.”

Her crying intensified, and he frowned, troubled by her lack of understanding. Couldn't she see that he had saved her? That he had intercepted her journey to eternal damnation? He had watched her that night on Patterson Bridge, had recognized the familiar look of someone ready to jump. Just as he had recognized it in all the others. Not all of them had come from the bridge, but most had. He’d been doing this for a while now—nearly two years. He knew that the defeated look of someone who had given up on life could look different from soul to soul.

Leaving the basement, he climbed the stairs slowly, each step carrying him further from the heavy atmosphere below. The main floor of his house felt almost eerily normal in comparison—clean hardwood floors, a basic area rug, walls painted in neutral beiges. The living room contained only the essentials: a comfortable but aging armchair, a small television set, and a bookshelf lined with religious texts and theological treatises.

He made himself a sandwich—cut diagonally, just like the others—and settled into his chair. The house creaked and settled around him, the sounds of an old structure that had stood isolated in these woods for decades. His nearest neighbor was over two miles away, the distance carefully chosen when he purchased the property five years ago. The isolation suited him, allowing him to focus on his mission without interference from a world that wouldn't understand.

Switching on the television, he intended only to check the weather forecast. It had been unseasonably cold—there had been frost on the ground this morning—and he wondered when it was going to let up. Instead, his heart nearly stopped as he saw Carla Rhodes' face filling the screen. The photo they used was from happier times—she was smiling, her eyes bright with life rather than dulled by months of captivity. The news anchor's voice droned on about the discovery of her body, about the ongoing investigation by Bowery PD, State Police, and even federal agents.

Anxiety crept through his chest like a thorny vine. He hadn't expected them to find her so quickly. He had chosen the spot carefully, deep in the woods where he thought the elements would have time to obscure evidence. But there she was, her death now public knowledge, her face broadcast to thousands of homes.

He turned off the television with trembling hands and went to the kitchen. The afternoon light filtered weakly through the unwashed window as he filled a glass with tap water. As he drank, his eyes were drawn to the view outside. Through the trees, just visible in the distance, he could make out the broken tip of Patterson Bridge—his hunting ground, the place where lost souls went to end their earthly suffering. It happened more than most people knew. From his vantage point, he’d seen plenty of people go out there. Sometimes they just walked to the edge, as if tempting fate or wondering if they should go on. It’s where his particular calling had come from.

The bridge had called to him from the first moment he saw it, a divine appointment that couldn't be ignored. How many times had he parked his car in the shadows nearby, waiting through long nights for another lost sheep to appear? How many souls had he saved from the mortal sin of suicide, only to keep them in his basement with the hope of an awakening?

He knew what others would think of his work. They would call him a monster, a kidnapper, a murderer. They wouldn't understand that every woman in his basement would be dead now if not for his intervention. Their bodies would have been broken on the rocks below Patterson Bridge, their souls condemned to eternal torment. Instead, they lived. They ate sandwiches cut diagonally. They used buckets that he emptied himself. They breathed air, even if it was the stale air of his basement.

The water glass trembled in his hand as he thought of Carla. He had prayed for another solution, had spent weeks searching for a way to avoid her execution.

But when he found the newest member of his flock standing on that bridge two nights ago, he knew what had to be done. Three cages. That was all he had room for. That was all he could manage while maintaining the strict routine necessary to keep his charges alive and cared for.

He moved to the living room window, drawn by a sound that might have been a distant siren. The forest pressed close around his house, a natural barrier between his holy work and the secular world beyond. But now, with Carla's body discovered, that barrier felt thinner somehow. Less secure. He knew he was running out of time. And maybe that was okay. Maybe his time for helping others was coming to a close.

He touched the cross that hung from a simple chain around his neck—not for luck, which would be sinful, but for strength. His work was not finished. Three lost souls still waited in his basement, still needed his guidance and care. And somewhere out there, perhaps even at this moment, another desperate person making their way to Patterson Bridge, seeking an end that he would not allow.

He was, in a very odd way, their savior. And if his role sometimes required difficult choices, even terrible ones, wasn't that the very nature of divine work? Hadn't God himself demanded terrible sacrifices from his most devoted servants? The Holy Book was filled with stories with that very lesson.

The sound he had heard faded away—not a siren after all, just the wind in the trees. He relaxed slightly, though the news of Carla's discovery still gnawed at him. He would need to be more careful now, more vigilant. But he would not stop. Could not stop.

Not while lost sheep still gathered at his bridge, crying out for salvation they didn't even know they needed.