Page 87 of Middlegame

That seems like a good place to end it. Older Dodger laughs and hangs up the phone, becoming present-Dodger, only-Dodger once again. The version of Dodger who has Dr. Peters lying, unconscious, at her feet.

With a sigh, she drops her phone back into her purse and goes looking for her emergency earthquake kit. She’s going to need the rope.

Dr. Peters wakes tied to one of Dodger’s dining room chairs. It’s sturdy oak, part of an antique set she bought on Craigslist, and the rope holding him is rated for rock climbing: he strains against the knots and is rewarded with nothing more than a bit of rope burn.

“You can open your eyes,” says Dodger. She sounds annoyed, like this was in no manner the way she intended to spend her afternoon: it’s the voice of a woman who has found the limits of her patience and gone past them, into the blasted hinterlands of irritation. “There’s no point pretending you’re still out, not when you’ve started wiggling around like a hooked fish.”

He opens his eyes. Dodger is seated in a chair identical to the one he’s tied to, legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded on her knees. He’s seen that position before: she assumes it every time they have a session, confessing her confusion and sorrows to him one small, belabored word at a time. Language has never been her forte, and the language of her own inner workings is no exception. Sometimes he’s wondered whether she ever stopped to listen to herself, to the contradictions and unnecessary complications she’s built her life upon.

He’s never asked her. That wasn’t his job. He was her therapist because she needed a therapist, and because it was an easy way to keep tabs on their highest-profile project. Even Reed had been surprised when the girl had gone into publishing; she’d been pigeonholed as a researcher. The math children were always flashier than the language ones, with more striking coloration and faster movements, naturally designed to draw fire. That didn’t mean they enjoyed being the focus of attention. Most of them seemed to want to disappear whenever possible, sinking deeper and deeper into their private projects, coming out only when coaxed.

Dodger has broken so many rules she didn’t even know existed that he’d be impressed, if he weren’t terrified. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he says, trying to sound earnest, trying to sound like her friend. “Untie me, and we’ll talk about it.”

“Was the misunderstanding you trying to shoot me, or the part where you missed?” She sounds genuinely curious.

His blood seems to chill, pulling his skin tight and trembling across his frame. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, but—”

“I already called the police,” she says. “I told them the neighbor kids were setting off cherry bombs in the gully. They came and went while you were passed out. Did you know I grew up less than a mile from here? I know how much like a gunshot a cherry bomb can sound, if you set it off under the right conditions. No one’s going to come looking for you. It’s just you and me and you telling me why you tried to kill me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I guess that’s true. I don’t have to let you go. That’s true too, isn’t it? Because no one knows you’re here.” The words come easy because they’re so sincere. She may not know Dr. Peters as well as she thought she did—and he’s her therapist, for God’s sake, he’s not supposed to shoot her—but she knows him well enough to know he wouldn’t have come alone if there’d been someone to help him. He wouldn’t have come at all if there’d been someone to do the dirty work on his behalf. She’s seen him telling his secretary to turn away patients whose insurance has lapsed, or whose problems are too much for him to handle. He’s not shy about passing the buck, as long as there’s someone he can pass it to.

“They know I’m here,” he says, almost triumphantly.

There’s nothing “almost” about the way Dodger’s eyes light up. In that moment, she’s won, and that means he must, somehow, have lost.

“Who?” she asks sweetly, leaning farther forward. “Because see, we’re at a binary choice right now. If you tell me, I’ll know, and I might not blame you as much for trying to kill me. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know, and I’ll have to go with another course of action. I don’t know how much time you have. I don’t think it’s much. Tick tock, as they say. Think fast.”

“Miss Cheswich, I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish, but I assure you, holding me captive won’t do you any good. If you let me go, right now, I promise not to press charges. You’re a very sick woman, but working together, I think we can make you well again.”

“Nope,” she says amiably. “Gaslighting me wasn’t one of your choices. You can tell me who sent you or you can keep your mouth shut, but you can’t convince me that I’m crazy. Do you want to try again, or do you want to call this a binary negative? I’m happy either way.”

“No one sent me.”

“Someone sent you.”

“I assure you, I acted alone.”

“You can’t even keep your story straight when you’re trying to decide between martyrdom and convincing me I somehow lured you to my house and attacked you without warning. Why would I believe you when you claim to have acted alone? You’re not cut out for this line of work.” She leans back in her chair. “Are you even really a therapist?”

“I am,” he says, stung. “I thought I helped you a great deal.”

“You did and you didn’t. I’m reviewing our sessions now. I always thought it was interesting how your response to my saying I was socially isolated was to tell me I needed to resolve my emotional conflicts before I attempted to make friends. I’d been expecting a referral to a support group or something, not ‘no, no, be a recluse until I tell you it’s time to stop.’”

“But you did it.”

“I did. Because it was what I wanted to hear you say, and what I wanted to do.” She looks at him calmly, and for the first time since his phone rang and Dr. Reed’s voice ordered him into picking up the gun, Dr. Peters feels true fear. She’s not uneasy. She’s not uncomfortable. If anything, she’s serene, a cat playing with its next meal. She shouldn’t be like this. The math children, the high-strung, headstrong logicians, they’re not like this. She should be folding, begging him to tell her what to do. A gun should not act independent of its trigger.

“Don’t you think we should talk about why you’d want to be socially isolated?”

She laughs—actually laughs—and says, “I was a different person then. Literally. People are like equations, doctor. They can always be revised.”

There’s a knock at the door. She turns her head, eyes brightening, before looking back to him and saying, “Last chance. Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“Suit yourself.” She stands. “I’ll be back.” Then she walks out of the dining room, out of his field of vision, leaving him alone and helpless to do anything but wait for her return.