Ben sat in the jail cell that had once housed Adam. Though it was a detail which had stumped him before, he now knew why his son had chosen to sit on the dusty floor instead of the bed. He now thought he understood a lot of things he had not before. The bed wasn't only dusty, it was old. The ropes which had once supported weight without difficulty were frayed and deteriorated. They barely had enough life left to support the disintegrating mattress atop them, let alone a grown man.

Like his son before him, Ben had arranged himself on the floor. Back pressed against the wall furthest from the cell's locked door, he apprised Adam who stood on the other side, his boots rooted to the same place where Ben had once stood, pleading for the slightest hint of the truth. Unlike his father, Adam did not plead; he did not ask questions; and he was not confused. He knew what had led them here, and he knew exactly what was going to happen next because he knew the truth.

Blood dripped from Ben's bottom lip, the left side of it pink and puffy around the skin broken by his son's fist. This place had first provoked Adam to hit Joe, and now it had pushed him to hit his father, too. Unlike Joe, Ben had not fought back, so he had neither been hit a second time nor knocked out. A single, powerful blow was all it had taken for Adam's unspoken message to be conveyed. He may not have been in control of himself, but he was in control of their situation.

Adam had come because the midwife had called him, but it was unclear why she felt the need to. Surely, she had had the power to liberate herself from Ben's grasp. She had the ability to overpower him herself. She had chosen not to. She had obliged Adam to defend her instead. After watching Adam thrust his father into the jail cell, the midwife had left. Only Adam had remained. Arms crossed, he leaned against the wall next to the jailhouse's front door. His eyes were dull and narrow and decidedly glazed, their inhibiting, telltale sheen reminiscent of someone suffering from fever or sickness.

"I saw that there was a second telegraph," Ben said. His tone was neither soft nor firm, striking a balance that he hoped would be perceived as authoritative enough for his son to respond.

But Adam did not.

"I saw you and Joe fight in the street," Ben tried. "I saw that you took care of him after you knocked him out. I saw that the only thing you did to him was break his nose. I saw you leave that room, and when I tried to follow you, I was brought here." He paused momentarily, only continuing when it became obvious that Adam was not intending to respond. "I stood in the thoroughfare, and I spoke to that woman. Then I was hit by you, and then I was forced into this cell, also by you. Now, I am not going to do us both a disservice by asking you how any of this has happened or why. You can stand there silently until the end of eternity if you want to, but I don't think you can ignore me. You can't keep yourself from hearing what I intend to say."

Eternally stoic, Adam's stillness did not break or wane. Staring at his father, he seemed to be regarding nothing at all.

"The midwife told me that I was questioning the wrong things," Ben said. "She said I should question the integrity of the events I've been shown, but I'm not going to do that. I am not going to question anything. The elders told me that the purpose of seeing was knowing. They told me I am to pick faith and trust over all else. So, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to trust you, Adam. I'm going to have faith that, despite your apparent confusion and anger, you know what's really going on here, and how to stop it."

Something about the proclamation hit a nerve. Snorting bitterly, Adam shook his head, and transferred his gaze to the jailhouse door. "There is no stopping it," he said, finally breaking his silence with a voice that was harsh and deep, so contradictory to his apathetic expression. Judging by his expression, one could believe he did not care about his father's current predicament—or his own. Judging by his voice, however, it was obvious he was enraged. "The only thing that can be done is to stay away from it. I told you not to engage her. I told you to leave."

"I didn't listen," Ben admitted freely, relieved that his perseverance had finally paid off, desperate to keep his son from falling silent again. If they couldn't talk then there truly was nothing to be done to change the way things were. If father and son could not find some common ground or agree on something, then all was lost. Well, Ben thought, maybe not all. Hoss and Joe were still on the other side of the boulder; they were still free of the grasps of the midwife and elders. For now. Looking at a son who refused to look at him back, he opened his mouth and voiced a question he wished he could leave unasked. "Are Hoss and Joe safe?"

Ben did not note the way he had phrased his worried query, but Adam did. Glancing at his father out of the corners of his eyes, he uncrossed his arms only to crossed them again. "I see you finally understand the manner in which you must phrase questions."

"I think I do; although, if you choose to talk in circles instead of answering that one then maybe I don't."

"They're safe. For now."

"For long?"

"No. The longer they remain in town the more likely it becomes that they won't leave it. Either they will grow curious or worried enough to investigate the boulder themselves and the elders will ensnare them in it. Or She will grow bored and trick them into turning on each other."

"She," Ben repeated solemnly, feeling a pang of agony over his son's use of the word. "I never knew you to be someone so easily converted. Your education always had a way of stifling your ability to place faith in ethereal things."

Adam smiled joylessly. "Well, I'm a true believer now." His tone was as hollow as his eyes, dull, hazel pools which glistened with a hint of something unholy and nothing else.

"I don't believe that." Ben did not want to believe it. He couldn't. The very thought of Adam being truly lost to this place would destroy him. The man in front of him was not his son. Not really. He was just this wicked place's version of him. Instead of emphasizing his best qualities, it was twisting them, transforming his loyalty to blindness, his strength and intensity into things to be feared.

"This place doesn't care what you believe," Adam said.

"No," Ben agreed. "But you do."

"And you are a fool if you still believe that."

"According to the midwife I'm one anyway. So are you, according to her."

Ben had hoped the latter part of his statement would be enough to tarnish his son's opinion of the woman, even if only slightly. Instead, it did nothing. Adam was neither bothered by it nor did he respond as he continued staring at him. His eyes, once so familiar, held nothing but emptiness accentuated by the glimmer his father had once been so hesitant to define. It was unholy. It was evil. And whatever was causing it was inside of his son.

"There's something I don't understand," Ben said impulsively, desperate to keep Adam talking. "That woman, she calls herself a midwife. She certainly wasn't born with that name. I don't understand why—" he paused to reframe his question. "It doesn't make sense for someone to choose a title for a name."

"The reason is obvious."

"Not to me."

"A midwife helps birth children. She is the one responsible for shepherding men into this world."

Nodding, Ben was not startled by the explanation rather saddened. "She certainly is fond of you," he said. "After all, she wanted you to come here so badly she sent you a telegraph. Out of all of us, she chose you, and, I suppose, judging by the fact that I am where I am and you are where you are, maybe you've chosen her too."

Adam did not immediately reply. "No one would choose this," he eventually said. Though his expression had not changed, his tone had. It was no longer harsh or overly deep. "I didn't choose her; she didn't choose me."

"She sent you a telegraph," Ben disagreed.

"She sends lots of telegraphs, arbitrarily asking for cattle, supplies, attention."

"Blood," Ben provided. "In the message she sent you, she asked you to bring her blood." It wasn't so much a statement of truth, rather a veiled, leading one. Without the ability to ask why, how, where, or what, he was deprived of the opportunity to properly question the contents of the second telegraph. He was denied the ability to press for a truth he was not certain he wanted to know.

"She didn't ask for blood," Adam said flatly. "She didn't ask for anything at all. Her message was about what she could give, not what she could take."

Ben thought of the telegraph clerk's overt insinuations, the assumed scandalous things the message had contained. "And you decided to embark on the cattle drive because you were interested in what she wanted to give you," he said.

"I wasn't interested," Adam disagreed.

"Then—" Closing his mouth, Ben could prevent the questions from leaving his tongue, but he could not stop them from circling his brain. Then what were you? Why would you come if not for that? How and when did she turn you into whatever it is that you've become. "I saw that there was a second telegraph, Adam," he said. "I know the things that were said about it."

"The elders control what you see. They control what you know," Adam said, the dismissive statement serving as a clear sign that whatever dissidence existed between the midwife and elders, existed between he and the elders as well. If the three men were to be considered a trio, then Adam and the midwife were a pair.

"Yes, but they don't control what I think," Ben said, eager to exploit the potential rift between his son and the men. "I think those men want me to question and doubt you because they believe it will prevent me from questioning and doubting them."

"But you saw me receive the second telegraph; you saw me knock Joe unconscious and then leave him in the room. These things have led you to think you know something." Adam scoffed bitterly. "You know nothing. This place will run circles around you if you let it, and you've given it free reign. You only saw those things because the elders wanted you to, and you're only questioning them because She wants you to. There is not a thought you have experienced in this place that was actually your own."

"I don't believe that."

"And this place doesn't care what you believe. You say you've chosen to trust me, but you won't. You say you're placing your faith in me, but you can't. You never did. When you yourself were called to this place you looked at me inside of that jail cell and you looked at Joe, and then you wasted what little, precious time you had been allotted to do something valuable by questioning and trusting the wrong things. You placed your faith in nothing, and you did not trust me."

"I did trust you."

"You questioned me."

"I never questioned you."

"I tried to warn you. You listened to the words I said, but you did all you could to not hear them. If you trusted me, you would have done what I told you to. You would have left. You would have had faith that I knew more about my situation than you did. You were too focused on how, why, what, and where, that you couldn't see past your questions to the truth right in front of you. You lost yourself in questions no one would answer. It was never about what, how, where, or what. It was always if. If I wasn't talking then I had good reason not to. If I told you to leave, then it was important for you to get the hell out—"

Snapping his mouth shut, Adam tilted his head, seemingly hearing something that his father could not. He pointed an imposing index finger at Ben and moved away from the door. "Be silent," he instructed firmly. "If you cannot stop yourself from asking questions, then don't say anything at all."

Ben was tempted to say the warning had been garish and unnecessary—and was downright offensive given the moment. Then the jailhouse door opened. Entering the trio of elders arranged themselves in front of Adam and appraised him indifferently.

"She shared with you what is to happen," the middle one said.

"She did," Adam said.

"You will not intercede."

"I will not intercede," Adam affirmed.

The elders looked among themselves, nodded, and then looked at Adam again. The middle one extended an expectant hand, prompting Adam to look at the gun belts strapped around his waist. He evaluated them indifferently before unbuckling the left-handed holster belonging to Joe.

"She gave you the other," he said as he handed it to the middle elder.

"She did," the middle elder said. "You will make sure your father fulfills his obligation."

"I will."

The elders stared at Adam momentarily, their expressions uncharacteristically serious, their eyes shining with suspicion as though anticipating his dissension.

"You will," the middle elder warned. "Or you will suffer the consequences. There are limits to fondness. She will not be able to save you a second time."

Apprehension tightening his chest, Ben watched as his son said and did nothing in response. When the elders left, he looked at Adam for direction and clarification of what had been discussed.

Procuring a key from his back pocket, Adam approached the cell door, unlocked, and opened it, then clutched the rusted metal bars.

"You will leave this cell," he firmly instructed. "And then you will leave the jailhouse. Joe and Hoss's guns will be waiting for you outside. You will return them to my brothers and then you will tell them to leave this town."

"I will not abandon you in this place."

"You're right." Adam looked at him, his hollow eyes flickering as a hint of regret crept into his authoritative tone. "You won't. You're not going anywhere, and neither am I. No one who finds M Alice can leave. If She can't be freed from this place, then neither can we."

"M Alice?" Ben asked, convinced either he had misheard, or Adam had misspoken. The only thing he had been cautioned about finding in this place had come in the form of a veiled warning from his oldest son.

"I found Malice, Pa," Adam had said. "And if you don't get out of here, you're going to find it too."

"That's an awfully strange name for a town," the telegraph clerk had said. "Although, I don't think it's really a town."

"Malice," Hoss had whispered, his blue eyes uneasy. "I can't see why someone would want to name a town somethin' like that."

All at once, Ben knew that no one actually had. Sometimes messages contained in telegraphs had a way of becoming convoluted, confused, or influenced by the party first receiving them. Occasionally, the details they contained could be wrong, things could be inadvertently overlooked, omitted, misspelled, or the spacing between letters were reflected incorrectly. Malice was never a feeling or place. It was a person named M Alice. And M Alice was the midwife.

"You must go," Adam said firmly. "Return to Hoss and Joe, give them their guns and tell them to leave. Don't share with them anything you have seen or been shown. You made a promise, and it must be kept at any cost."

"And if they don't want to go?" Ben asked.

"Then you must find a way to make them."

"And if they refuse to leave me? To leave you?"

"That isn't an option. If they go, they will be allowed to live. If they stay, then they must die."

"But I can't tell them that."

"No. You cannot tell them anything."

"Then they won't leave."

"You're their father," Adam said. "The man who knows his sons better than anyone else in the world. Find a way to do what I failed to. Find a way to make them go."

TBC