Chapter 32

Arnold Cavenstein stood half-naked in his kitchen, drenched in sweat. As he had anticipated, he had sweat through his first shirt of the day already and with this previously in mind he had taken the proper precaution of laying several dry shirts in store in the kitchen. He reached for one of the dry button-ups and, after putting it on, began buttoning from bottom to top.
The dining party had nearly reached their thirteenth course and, outside of the expected services, they had only required one bottle of wine and one extraneous use of the telephone.
Mr. Cavenstein walked over to the stove to check the filet mignon which would be their thirteenth course. It was broiling nicely inside the oven and as he could do nothing but wait for it he decided to move to the dining room and ask his guests if they were in want of anything. He took a moment to check himself in the mirror, straightening his hair and shirt before walking through the door.
As he entered the room he noticed that only three of the four attendants were seated at the table. The large, tan man known only to him as Simon had disappeared. His mind raced wildly for the answer to this situation as he masked his inner thoughts, calmly walking towards the table.
“Is everything to your liking?” whispered Mr. Cavenstein.
“Shh,” hissed Roland waving his hand in Mr. Cavenstein’s direction.
All of the muscles in Arnold’s body tensed as he waited. Thoughts began to cycle through his mind in quick succession. Where had the tan fellow gone? Had he become impatient with the service or had he been ‘taken care of’ as Roland had warned of earlier in the evening?
“Roland,” said Mrs. J, “this is ridiculous. I can’t hear anything and I can guarantee there is no one on the other side of that door. You’re just being paranoid.”
Suddenly Simon rounded the corner, bounding into the room from his mysterious location. He eyed Mr. Cavenstein suspiciously as he walked back to his seat.
“You know,” he said coldly, “your restroom is a bit small. You might consider pushing one of the walls out or perhaps a complete renovation. Just a thought.”
Mr. Cavenstein nodded and thanked his guest for the suggestion.
“Arnold,” said Roland as he took a napkin from his lap, “could you clear the table for our next course? We won’t be much longer.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cavenstein as he darted towards the rolling cart in the corner of the room. He wheeled the silver cart towards the table and began to clear off the vestiges of the previous meals.
“So, Roland,” queried Simon, “you’ve sent Jehovah after the dreamer and that’s that?”
Roland nodded and reached for his glass of wine.
“But what if there’s more? He managed to find his way this far. What’s to say he won’t escape the city as well?”
The old man sitting at the other side of the table coughed which appeared to be a sign as it drew the attention of the remainder of the party.
“Because,” croaked Victor, “he’s not built for it.”

*~~*

Thirty years earlier…

Three doctors and a man in a gray suit stand in a room lit by very bright fluorescent lights. The room is a bright white with several metal apparatuses on the counter that have the look of medical design and function. Three doctors stand in a huddled mess in the corner of the room with a look of prolonged distress. The man in the gray suit appears relaxed, standing away from the three doctors, smoking a cigarette.
“So,” asks the smoking man, “why was I called here? I’m terribly busy what with the recent flip-flop of Perceptionist leaders.”
“You know, Victor,” says one of the doctors wiping the sweat from his brow, “that habit will take years off your life.”
Victor grins and blows a puff of smoke at the circle of doctors.
“There are no guarantees anymore, doctor. Global warming was supposed to wipe us out, but it didn’t. People die every day who never touched a cigarette and you know what?”
Victor looks at the cigarette as he flicks an ash on the floor.
“This makes me feel better. So, how about you tell me why I’m here.”
The doctors glare at the smoking man. One of them steps forward.
“You were referred specifically by the top to deal with this. There was a boy born here a few days ago that was having very poor reactions to the night hibernations. He shakes. His situation was reported and we were instructed to withhold the medication. The tremors increased. They happen every night.”
The doctor shakes his head.
“It’s something I’ve never seen before. We were told to let you ‘deal with it’.”
Victor chuckles and walks towards the doctors. As he reaches them he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the cloud of smoke up into the air.
“Case in point, gents. No guarantees anymore.”

*~~*

“The dreamer was never intended to leave the farm. He doesn’t have the capacity for travel.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it looks as if his ‘capacity’ is rising.”
“This is a moot point,” said Roland briskly, “regardless of his resourcefulness he’ll be recaptured within the next few hours. Jehovah has never failed us.”
Mrs. J sneered from her end of the table.
“You men have too much confidence in one another. I prefer to deal in the philosophy of random chance.”
Mrs. J rose from her chair and drew a small handgun from her handbag. Mr. Cavenstein’s eyes grew as large as saucers as she walked over to the door leading out of the apartment and swiftly opened it. She stuck her head out and looked both directions.
“You see, Roland, there is no one out here. Nobody knows we’re here.”
She walked back to the table and placed the gun back into her purse. Mr. Cavenstein stood frozen in place. The very real possibility of his own death had just occurred to him upon sighting the gun Mrs. J had in her possession. Seeing that these were a group of people who placed a very high value on secrecy he knew his ears had heard too much. His mind urged him to go back to the kitchen, but his legs refused to budge.
“Alright, Arnold,” said Roland, his tone belabored, “we’re ready the next course.”
As if Roland had flipped the switch on his musculature Mr. Cavenstein immediately became free and darted into the kitchen. As Arnold hastily lifted the thirteenth course from the oven he considered the likelihood of his survival from the fateful dinner party. He dreamed of a daring escape out the kitchen window. Dodging bullets as he swung down the rusty and ill-kept fire escape. His sprint down the street away from all the nastiness he had been forced to endure. Spending his days somewhere else, somewhere sunny.
Chairs creaked in the dining room as Arnold put the dinner plates on a large silver serving platter.
“Ah, well,” he thought as he barreled through the door, “I’m a horrible sprinter anyway.”