You open your eyes. You are not in Kansas City. You are in a bright room. The walls and floor are soft and cushioned.
The woman sits in front of you. The table is between you and the woman. Her smile looks like the cloud of crows, looming above you, ready to strike.
"Shall we get started?" She implores you. You have heard her ask that a million times. She never listens to your answer. You don't know why she bothers to ask.
Can I have the book back? You ask.
The woman shakes her head. You know she is trying to hide the pleasure your pain is causing her. "You mean the Bible? You know you aren't allowed any possessions. I don't care what you had before you came here."
You stare at her. You don't know what to do without the book. The book always knew what to tell you.
"So let's try this again," the woman says. She holds up the fruit and the picture. "This is an apple. This is a picture of a stop sign. What color are they?"
The apple. It is bright against the bland of the walls and the people's clothes. It stands out. It is inconsistent. It clashes with everything else. And the stop sign. It is dull on the paper. It just sits there. It is numb, it is lazy. The apple is pink, you say. The stop sign is gray.
The woman sighs. "They are the same color," she answers. "Try to understand. They are both red."
You can't help it. The anger and the pain burns inside you. No! You shout. No! They are pink and gray! My words are red, I am speaking red! The boy would understand. Bring him here, he will tell you.
The woman's face is disappointed. "We keep telling you," she says tensely. "The boy is not here. Your son died in a school bus accident years ago."
You fall back against the chair. You know that. Every time she says it, you know it. But you always forget. I want coffee, you say.
"You will get coffee!" The woman smiles brightly, but it is yellow. It is a lie. "Once you understand, you will get coffee, I'm sorry. I promise you."
I want coffee! You yell. How do you tell her she is wrong? How do you make her understand? You could bring her to Kansas City. She would understand then. I will show you. The colors are right in Kansas City. They are amazing and beautiful! Purple and red and orange and blue. It is easy to get there. You follow the train tracks west.
The woman loses her patience. "You have never been to Kansas City! You have been here for twelve years!" She snaps, and sighs. "To the electric room, again, please."
She waves you away. The men at the sides of the room come and strap your arms together and put you in the coat so you can't move. "You must cooperate," you hear the woman say as you are dragged out of the room.
You struggle. You try. It is your only hope. The room is green, but it is rapidly turning gray and hopeless, another day, another time, every single minute the same as the last and as the next to come. You try to move forward, one more step, one more step to Kansas City, but it is so far away and the boy is not here to keep you going. The air is so heavy, and you are so tired, and you try and try and try to push on, one more day, another day, another day, but your days are running out and you can't keep doing this, you have to stop and rest but they will sink into you and you will never move again.
You are in the room and put in the machine and they press the button and the song plays, bitter and angry, melancholy, dreaming of better days in Kansas City. The sounds clash and you try, you try not to cry, you remember the book's warning- Mournful harmonicas will make you cry. Do not let them. Your tears will burn you-you try not to cry but you do and your tears scald your cheeks and you know you are feeling the poison of yellow. You have never felt so cold. It is the furthest thing from warmth and orange and you know you are feeling gray. Yellow and gray.
You are back on the plains, the endless gray, the stale yellow, trudging towards Kansas City but the boy is not there and you know you will never make it. The ringing in your ears is so loud you can't hear anything else.
You want to see blue. You want to feel it and hear it. But you have not seen blue since it left the boy's eyes.
