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Una is not Argent, Connor must remind himself. Her motives, whatever they are, must be different. But why is she doing this? Connor waits and watches, hoping she’ll give him a clue.
“Either you have to let me go, or you have to kill me,” her captive says. “Please do one or the other, and let this end!”
To that, Una responds with a single, simple question. “What’s my name?”
“I told you, I don’t know! I didn’t know yesterday, I don’t know today, and I won’t know tomorrow!”
“Then maybe today the music will remind you.”
Then Una undoes his bonds. He doesn’t even try to run—he must know it’s no use. Instead he sobs, his arms going limp. And into those limp arms Una puts the guitar she brought.
“Do it,” Una says. Now she speaks gently, and she caresses his hands, lifting them into position on the instrument. “Give it life. It’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done.”
“That wasn’t me,” he pleads.
Una moves away from him and sits down facing him. Taking her rifle from its case, she lays it across her lap. “I said do it.”
Her prisoner reluctantly begins to play. Sorrowful strains fill the space and echo, the entire building becoming like the tone chamber of the guitar. Connor feels it resonating in his chest.
This music is beautiful. This prisoner of Una’s is a true master of the instrument. He’s not sobbing anymore. Instead it’s Una who sobs. She holds her gut as if there’s great pain there. Her sobs grow into wails that resonate with the music like some great chanting of grief.
Then Connor shifts positions, and a pebble the size of a marble dislodges from the edge of the hole and drops to the ground inside.
In an instant Una leaps to her feet and swings her rifle into position, aiming it at him through the gap in the stones.
Connor pulls back reflexively, but loses his balance and falls over backward, tumbling down the outside shell of the building, bumping and bruising himself on the rough stone. He lands on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and when he tries to rise, Una is there with the rifle barrel just inches away from his nose.
“Don’t you dare move!”
Connor freezes, half-convinced that she really is going to blow him away if he moves. Then, her prisoner, seeing his chance, bolts into the woods.
“Hííko!” she curses, and takes off after him. Connor gets to his feet in pursuit, to see where this little psychotic drama will end.
As she closes in on her escaping prisoner, Una drops her rifle and launches herself at him, landing on his back and bringing him down. She struggles with him, her long hair like a dark shroud covering both of them as they thrash on the ground, and Connor realizes that he is suddenly the one with a distinct advantage. He picks up Una’s rifle and aims it at both of them.
“Up! Both of you! Now!”
And when they don’t listen, he fires the rifle into the air.
That gets their attention. They stop struggling, and they both rise to their feet. Only now does Connor notice that there’s something odd about this guy’s face.
“What the hell is all this about?” Connor demands.
“None of your business!” Una snaps. “Give me back my rifle!”
“How about I just give you one of the bullets?” Connor keeps the rifle trained on her but shifts his gaze to her prisoner. The odd patchwork nature of his face—a starburst of flesh tones that seem to continue into the shades and textures of his hairline—is unnatural, yet familiar.
All at once it strikes Connor who this is. He’s seen him enough in the media—imagined him enough in his nightmares. This is that abominable Rewind! The recognition must be mutual, because the Rewind’s stolen eyes register recognition as well.
“It’s you! You’re the Akron AWOL!” And then, “Where is she? Is she here? Take me to her!”
The only thing Connor knows for sure at this moment is that there’s too much flying at him to process. If he tries to sort it all out in his head right now, he’ll make a crucial mistake, one of them will get ahold of this rifle, and someone else will end up dead—maybe him.
“This is what we’re going to do,” he says, forcing calm into his voice but keeping the rifle raised. “We’re all going back to the igloo thing.”
“Sweat lodge,” snarls Una.
“Right. Whatever. We’re going back there, we’re going to sit our asses down, and we’re going to sweat this whole thing out until I’m satisfied. Got it?”
