“What boys?” The constable looked confused.
“At Brightwood, sir.”
“Right.” The constable had little interaction with the center.
“It’s the new director, sir.”
“I didn’t know they had one, but go on.”
“It’s what she does to boys.”
“And what is that?” Constable Roberts asked.
The man across the desk seemed sincere, but if there was one thing Constable Roberts had learned in life, it was that sometimes those who felt right were wrong. The very best of us could be wrong.
“She calls it holding time, sir.”
“Holding time?”
“It’s scary, sir.”
“All right, then. Tell me more.”
“She wraps kids inside sheets and rugs. She says it’s to make them feel like they are in the womb again. So they can start over.”
That didn’t sound so terrible to Constable Roberts, but he kept his opinion to himself. He wasn’t the one being wrapped in a sheet, after all.
“She keeps them wrapped up tight, sir, sometimes for hours. She does it until you are begging and pleading.”
The constable looked calmly at Ralph.
“How do you know this?”
“I was in her—place—in Arizona.”
“What was it called?”
“Axis Treatment Center, sir.”
Constable Roberts wrote a note on the pad on his desk.
“You mean you worked there?”
“No, I, uh—”
Constable Roberts looked up.
“You were a resident there.”
“I was just a boy.”
“Does she know this?”
“No, sir. She doesn’t remember me, sir. It’s been a long time. I look different now.”
“I’m sure you do. What do you want me to do about this?”
“I want you to stop her, sir. Stop the holding time.”
