The Ordeal

Chapter Five

The two men open the doors of their brand new gleaming silver iCar in the parking lot of my father's antique store and my first thought is, They look so good.

Even as they scrunch their noses in the polluted, scorched air of the Basin, their handsome features-a product of genetic pruning together with the best trainers and tailored diets money can buy-stand out sharply. Their custom clothes fold softly over their chiseled bodies. As they walk toward the store I feel my temperature rise, a mix of admiration and envy.

My father notices all this too, but he's more excited just to have customers, especially ones that can actually spend money on antiques.

"Leander, man the register," my father says quietly as he stations himself by the door. He stands up tall and smiles broadly, which I don't see him do that often anymore.

He opens the door for the two men with a flourish. "Welcome to Hill's Antiques," he says. "Are you looking for something in particular, or just browsing?"

I watch them as they look around like they own the place, as everyone from the Preserve does, but there's also something else. They look...nervous? I don't understand why they would be, because they could surely buy everything in the store and the store itself without dipping too deep into their trust funds.

Eventually they turn to my dad, fake smiles exposing their perfect teeth. "We are looking for something, actually," the one in front says. "Twentieth century handguns, if you have any, Mr..."

"Please, call me Joseph," my father says, beaming. "And you're in luck, I actually have a few particularly fine examples." He gestures toward one of the transparent counters, under which a few handguns are laid out. The two men turn and smile to each other, and I get more uneasy. What could they possibly be up to?

They walk up to the counter and the one who spoke traces his finger heavily across the glass as he scans the handguns. He stops at one near the other end and his face lights up. He gestures to his companion to come and look. His face lights up too.

"Show us that one," the first one says.

"The M1911, an excellent choice," my dad says as he quickly unlocks the counter and expertly lifts the gun from its stand. He hands it to the speaker, who hands it to the other man.

They exchange a look that makes my blood freeze. Before I can say anything, the speaker takes the gun back, whips my father across the face with the pistol grip and the two take off running.

My father straightens up, reeling from the blow. I stand there, paralyzed by shock and anger. So it is redundant when he yells, "Stay here!" and takes off, faster than I would have thought possible.

I try to make sense of what just happened. I knew they were up to no good but why would they rob us? My father had managed to collect a number of extremely valuable antiques, items that could be found almost nowhere else, but he never overcharged for them, and anyone who went shopping for antiques could easily afford them.

No time for this now. I will myself to stop trembling and decide my father needs my help. I run outside and look around. Dust coats everything in the Basin and the chase has kicked up a trail to follow. I run as fast as I can, like a hound that has caught a scent.

I make a right at the end of the block and down an alley flanked by abandoned buildings. I just miss my father turning a corner. Lungs burning, I sprint at top speed to catch up with him. He is still out of sight when I hear him yell with frustration: "NO!"

I catch up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He whirls around and sees me, his face flush with anger. But he's not angry with me. I look past him and I understand.