Do Not Go On. Bryan Furuness

wiggled in next to him on the platform, needling him with her elbow until he scooched over. All his bones were tender at the points, especially his sit bones. He’d scavenged a cushion from the chaise longue in the outbuilding, but it had been mashed flat after a couple of days. He cleared his throat again roughly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

      “Taking myself hostage.”

      “Get down.”

      “Sure thing,” she said. “As soon as my demands are met.”

      Goddammit, what was wrong with her? The more he pushed her away, the more she clung to him. Why couldn’t she forsake him like a normal teenager? “Bug,” he said. “This is not a game.”

      “If you want a peaceful resolution to this situation,” she said, “you’ll come down. Otherwise I’ll stay up here until we both die of starvation.”

      Ben looked across the yard, toward the fields and roads beyond. No cars, no movement at all. But the next moment—who knew?

      Ana’s problem was that she believed the Program could protect them. They had never lost a witness who followed the rules, they said, which sounded good until you realized they had a thousand damn rules, and nobody could follow all of them. So what did the claim really mean? That they had lost witnesses. And when they did, they investigated just long enough to find a single misstep, and then they pinned the blame on the victim.

      Maybe there was a time when the Program had worked, when a person could hide and never be found, but now that notion sounded—oh, what SAT word would Ana use?—quaint. Archaic. The world was smaller and faster and more illuminated every day, and there was no longer any way to disappear. During those long summer nights of patrolling the farmhouse, he had come to understand it was only a matter of time before Zeeshan found him. He couldn’t stop that from happening, but he could get his daughter out of harm’s way. If she would just listen to reason.

      Ana lifted a coffee cup off a nail, inspected the bark-stained water inside. “You gonna finish this?” She drank it down, then wiped her mouth to hide her gagging.

      This girl. What would it take to push her away? Moving into a tree should have been enough. Painting a face on an armoire and shooting it while she stood just a few feet away should have definitely been enough. But no—not for Ana. She doubled down. And as long as he stayed on this platform, he realized, she would keep batting against him like a moth to a bulb, until he shattered or she got fried.

      Ben struggled to his feet, grabbing a high branch to steady himself.

      “What are you doing?” said Ana.

      “Coming down.”

      “Coming down,” she repeated slowly. “If this is a trick—”

      “No trick. You win.”

      “If you’re lying, I’ll climb right back up. You know that, right?”

      He nudged her with his foot. “I can’t get down if you’re in the way.”

      She looked at him a moment longer, then swung down to the ground, issuing warnings and threats all the way. Ben edged out on the low bough, hands looped around the high branch. On the ground, Ana held up her hands. “Just let go,” she said. “I’ll catch you.”

      He kept inching out, away from the trunk. Under his feet the bough groaned.

      “Dad,” she said. “Careful. It’s—”

      When he heaved down on the low bough with all his weight, all she could do was cry out—not even a scream, just a betrayed caw as she jumped out of the way—but the bough held. He heaved down again and there was a huge crack and the limb split from the trunk with a sound like the ripping of tendons, crashing to the ground in a hail of coffee cups. But not Ben: he was dangling in the air, hanging onto the high branch.

      He looked at his daughter sprawled on the ground, and saw that she was unharmed. Maybe now she would see there was nothing she could do for him. Maybe now she would come to her senses and save herself.

      And who knows—maybe she would have if he hadn’t slipped. As Ben pulled himself up to the high branch, one hand came loose. That’s all it took to turn the world sideways. The wind screamed in his ears and the tree bark ate his knuckles and he had just enough time to close his eyes before the earth crashed into his head, and he became lightning.

      Chapter 2

      BALL LIGHTNING

      PETER CREWS WAS HIS NAME, but no one called him that. To his wife, he had been Crews, just Crews, and after she left him, no one called him anything but Droop. This was a reference to Droopy Dog, the cartoon hound with a potbelly and sleepy eyes. Pete had the dog’s slumped shoulders, the thatch of hair, and though he wasn’t fat (especially by Indiana standards), he had a swaybacked way of standing that showcased his little belly.

      He drove a banged-up Bronco, which was good in bad conditions, but pretty bad in good conditions, like now, speeding along the open interstate toward the hospital. There was barely a breeze, but when he pushed the Bronco up to seventy, he felt buffeted and had to wrestle the wheel to keep it straight. Pulling off on exit 215, he saw a tree blown over by last night’s storm, a man chainsawing it into rounds near the Trail Tree Restaurant. The man lifted his saw in greeting. Pete nodded at him.

      To the good people of Morocco, Droop was a former railroad worker, retired early with a settlement for a back injury. In truth, he was a Deputy U.S. Marshal. His badge was in the Bronco’s glove box, buried in a nest of oil change receipts.

      Nine years ago he’d worn that badge on a lanyard as he worked the short-term side of witness security in Chicago, escorting witnesses to safe houses and standing watch as they prepared for relocation. After his life fell apart, he had to get away from Chicago, so the Program sent him to Indiana’s northern district, which hung down from the top of the state like a sleepy eyelid. Now he worked post-relo. Now he was a glorified babysitter who had to hide his badge.

      That was the deal on the long-term side: you couldn’t let people know who you were, because it would attract unnecessary attention. It was almost like being a witness yourself. After a while, you grew into your cover story. Some days, Pete felt retired, puttering around the house to fill the hours and avoid the quicksand of the past. Some days he was visited by a phantom pain in his lower back, though he’d never actually had a back injury.

      Now, on his way to the hospital, Pete was in danger of living up to his cover story, at least the part about early retirement. He could practically hear his boss’s questions already. What the hell was your witness doing in a tree? What kind of shit show are you running, Droop? Too much going on in Indiana for you to handle?

      Bureaucrats. You could always count on them to go heavy on pressure and light on understanding, especially the ones like Boxelder who had never worked a single day as a marshal. How that guy got to be the new Director-designate of Witness Security, Pete would never know. One thing was certain, though: before Pete informed him, he had to come up with some answers. I don’t know wasn’t going to cut it.

      He whipped into the parking lot of the Jasper County hospital, hoping Ben didn’t get chatty on pain meds. The lot was nearly empty, so he ended up in a spot right in front. He turned off the car and looked at the entrance.

      Concrete planters, bristling with leggy geraniums. A lady holding onto her IV stand like it was a subway pole, smoking a cigarette as the wind tousled her gown. Behind her, the automatic door slid open and closed, open and closed.

      Pete was thinking of his daughter. All those nights at Wyler Children’s Hospital, hallways smelling of bleach, cafeteria full of hollow-eyed parents. The drive on I-90, tires hitting the rumble strip and Pete snapping awake. Parking in a lot like this one, getting eaten by automatic doors like those.

      He swung a leg out of the