Adam quieted. He fastened the buttons on his shirt and lifted his hands to wipe at his tear-streaked face. The salty moisture dampened the blood which had dried upon his fingertips, his efforts transforming the transparent lines of tears into smeared collections of red, marking his face like disfigured war paint.

"Will they come back?" Ben asked. He considered the doorless buildings, then the collection of boulders blocking one end of the thoroughfare. "Or do the elders and midwife intend to leave us here forever?"

Adam shook his head, an action that did little to answer his father's inquiry.

"Well," Ben said, "I suppose she'll have to return eventually." He glanced at the blood marking his son's face and hands. If there had been a horse trough to be found, then he may have wet his own hands and set his attention on scouring any hint of the damning substance off of Adam's body. "You did say she needed blood to survive."

He regarded the staining around his son's mouth and cringed, his stomach turning with slight sickness. Had the midwife forced Adam to ingest his own blood? Or was something more sinister afoot?

"Forgive me, son, for what I'm about to ask, but I do believe the time has come for you to tell me the truth. There isn't a purpose in hiding it anymore. I am here with you, so there is no reason to protect me."

"That's not a question," Adam said somberly.

"No, it's not." Oddly, Ben thought of it as more of a plea. If he didn't know the truth—if Adam chose not to share it now—then what chance did he have of saving his sons or himself? "Are you like her?" he asked. "There's blood on your hands, on your lips and face. She needs it. Do you need it too?"

Adam shifted nervously, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. "We shouldn't be talking about this," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because we could be overheard."

"By the elders or the midwife?"

"By anyone who wishes to listen," Adam said.

Ben saw little reason to fear such a thing. "It doesn't matter," he said.

Adam cast him a guarded glance, his dull eyes questioning.

"Nothing does," Ben explained. "Or so I've been told. After all, this is a place where nothing matters, so there is no purpose in fearing the truth." He allowed himself a small smile, proud of his ability to project wisdom despite the dire circumstances. Perhaps Adam was not the only one who was slowly starting to resemble his true self. "Tell me, son, which are you more afraid of: That an unseen onlooker might hear your version of events or that I will?"

Adam huffed a breath and pressed his lips tightly together.

"Adam, I saw. I know."

"You know nothing."

"Then tell me what is wrong about what I was shown."

"Nobody cares about the things that are wrong here," Adam said cryptically. "They only care about the things that are right."

"You received a second telegraph; you came to this town; you fought your brother in this street; you cared for him after, and while he was still unconscious, you left the room. That's what the elders want me to believe happened. What do you want me to believe? The elders want me to question you. The midwife wants me to question the elders. Who do you want me to question?"

"Nobody."

"I don't believe that."

"This place doesn't care what you believe."

"No, but you do. Stop protecting him, Adam."

"I'm not protecting anyone."

"Yes, you are, or at least you were. You said it yourself, son, you only did what you did to protect Joe. So, tell me, what did he do that resulted in the need to be protected?"

Adam's expression was pained. "I can't tell you," he whispered.

"Because he didn't do anything," Ben probed.

Sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, Adam bit down on it, hard, and shook his head.

"Because you're afraid of being overheard," Ben said.

Adam liberated his reddened lip from between his teeth. "It isn't what you believe that matters here," he whispered. "It's the foolish things you say, and the promises you make because of them. If I were to implicate Joe, then I would damn him."

"I didn't make him promise to stay away from here, so he's damned anyway. So is Hoss. So am I. Secrets can't save us, Adam."

"The truth won't set you free; it'll only further ensnare you."

"Maybe. Maybe not. The truth might save you though."

"Nothing can save me." Adam looked at his hands, then lifted them to trail his fingertips across his blood-smeared face. "You asked about the blood on my mouth, you want to know whether it was something I took or was given."

Ben swallowed, combating a sudden thickness taking up residence in the back of his throat.

"She needs the blood," Adam continued. "I don't. She wants me to be like her, so She likes to share, but She can't really convert me. To make me like her would defeat the purpose of bringing me here in the first place. She needs me to live so that She can live or at least that was the way it was supposed to be before you came along. Now that you're here, now that the elders have tricked you into remaining, I don't know what She'll choose to do."

"Those men, they are responsible for keeping her here."

"She can't be allowed to walk free. A vicious creature like her, She'd destroy the world and every man in it. She's fickle, jealous, unforgiving."

"And fond of you."

Adam looked away from Ben, fixing his gaze on the entry-less jailhouse.

"Tell me about her," Ben implored. "Tell me about M Alice."

Adam shook his head.

"Are you afraid you will be overheard?"

"No."

"Then I see no reason for you to protect her."

Adam's eyes widened, his gaze slipping away from the building to look at his father in shock. There was an uneasy flicker in his hollow, hazel eyes, a hint of a silent warning that would remain unheeded.

"Tell me about your vow, son. The promise you made that's trapped you in this place."

"You saw," Adam said. "You know."

"I don't."

"The elders showed you."

"I want to hear it from you."

Adam looked at the jailhouse again. "If I were to tell you, if you were to hear the things you wish to hear and know everything that has remained elusive to you until this point, there would be no taking this knowledge back. No unknowing it. It would sit like lead on your heart, the weight of it so crushing that it would twist and torment your soul. In order to hear the truth, then you must see me. You must understand and accept the things the elders want you to. You have to stop believing that there's some glorious moment to be found that will fix everything. There isn't, not anymore. There could have been, but the opportunity is gone. I didn't lie to you about my reason for coming here, but I wasn't forthright either. Joe didn't mean to mislead you when he awoke and shared what he remembered; this place has confused him, too. Even so, there is truth to be found in the moments you were shown."

"You said the elders meant to mislead me."

"I said no such thing."

"Then you implied it. You said that this place would run circles around you if you let it, and I've given it free reign. You said I'd only saw what the elders wanted me to. You said I was only questioning them because the midwife wants me to. You said there was not a thought I had experienced in this place that was my own."

Talking to Adam was like taking three steps forward and thirty steps back; Ben could not understand his son's unwillingness to speak directly. He wondered which was trying to run circles around him now: This place or his son. He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep, centering breath, then opened his eyes, and prayed for the right words to follow the rush of breath leaving his mouth.

"You can't protect me, Adam. Before you tried, but I couldn't listen. I didn't hear you. There's no reason to protect me now. You were alone with the truth before because you had to be, but you don't have to be alone with it now. I am here with you. I saw what the elders wanted me to. I know what the midwife chose to share with me. And I will listen to anything you need to tell me. Even if the truth is ugly or painful, son, I'll understand. If you and Joe were unkind to each other or downright cruel, then I'll understand that too. After all, the journey here was terrible," he said, paraphrasing Joe's earlier recount in the hope that it would implore Adam to continue the story his youngest brother had begun.

But Adam didn't. Casting his father a look of utter disappointment, he walked away instead.

"Where are you going?" Ben called after him.

"Not where," Adam seethed.

"Why won't you tell me the truth?"

"Not why."

"How do you expect me to be able to save you if you won't tell me the truth?"

"Not how."

"Then what?" Ben demanded.

"Not what," the midwife whispered, her voice sounding close to Ben's ear.

He turned swiftly, casting a furious gaze down upon the midwife. He noted her youthful form had endured; in her current condition, she did not appear a day over eighteen. Absently, he wondered if he would ever see her in an aged state again or if he would be forced to behold her puerility forever.

"I could ask you where you came from," he said. "But I won't dare."

"Because you know how much it displeases me."

"No, because of how much your refusal to answer would displease me."

"Oh, my," she laughed. "I see you've experienced quite the shift in demeanor. Do you really believe anger will lead you to what you seek? It won't. It will only push the answers further away."

"I wasn't under the impression answers were supposed to be forthcoming in this place."

"No, you're just clinging to the notion that your son is supposed to be. Just because you've been damned to this place that doesn't mean he has to be forthcoming. He doesn't have to tell you anything he doesn't want you to know. I do believe, that out of the two of you, he has more right to be angry than you do. After all, you're the one who didn't listen. You're the one who didn't place your faith in the right thing. You're the one who didn't warn your other two sons correctly, who spat in the face of the sacrifice your oldest son has made."

"Hoss and Joe," Ben said, his anger cooling to make way for a rush of fear. "If they return, will you kill them?"

"No."

"Then you will allow them to live."

"I don't allow anything," the midwife said. "I have no interest in them. The things that will happen to them are inconsequential to me."

"Then killing them is purposeless."

"I would agree, except I am not the one who means them harm. I'm not the one who means you harm either. Your vow is to the elders. Your eldest son's is to me. Your other sons will not be asked to make promises to anyone. I will not show myself to them and they will not see you again. The elders will deal with them accordingly. They will do what they must to keep their vile secret, and your son will do what he must to keep his vow to me."

The midwife cast her gaze upon the distant thoroughfare, her eyes setting on Adam who had come to stop to appraise the dastardly trailhead. "Do you have any idea how many times he has looked at the road which led him here, wishing it could have taken him somewhere else?" She glanced at Ben. "He's angry, you know."

"At you?"

"No," the midwife laughed.

"At me?"

"At himself. He carries such a wearisome weight upon his shoulders. He's merciful toward others, a kindness he does not extend to himself. You shouldn't interpret his desire for silence as intent to deceive."

"I never would," Ben said darkly. Who was this woman, this destructive creature to explain the nuances of his son's personality to him? "I will, however, interpret the marks you've carved into his body as something to seek retribution for."

"Oh, I see. You must believe I hurt him because you won't allow yourself to see that he's hurt himself."

"Adam did not carve those marks into his own chest."

"Maybe not, but he did come here. He made his little brother come here, too. He hurt himself and he hurt his brother."

"That's what you and the elders would like me to believe."

"That's what your oldest wishes you to believe," the midwife corrected. She shook her head, pity brightening her deep, black eyes as she regarded Adam from afar. "We all have our versions of the truth here, it's a shame we don't get to decide if ours is believed by others." She glanced at Ben out of the corners of her eyes. "I could show you his truth, you know. Not just his version, mind you; the pure truth, unadulterated and unsullied by perception or point of view. You could watch it unfold as though you were really there."

"The elders already showed me—"

"Nothing. They showed you nothing in comparison to what I could show you. You see, Adam received a second telegraph; he came to this town; he fought his brother in this street and cared for him after, and while Joe was unconscious, he left the room. Nothing you were shown holds any importance in comparison to what happened next. Those are the things Adam will never share with you, the truth he doesn't want you to know. You don't want to hear about those things if he isn't the one talking about them, I suppose. Not you, the man who has finally decided to place his faith and trust in his son."

Ben nodded firmly. "That's right," he said.

"That's wrong." The midwife looked back at Adam, his presence by the trailhead unwavering. "How very noble of you to finally decide with whom you should place your faith. Of course, it is much too little, much too late. You do understand you can't save your sons any more than you can save yourself. You would like to think you can, though, all because you've suddenly decided that you must, but you do not get to dictate or decide. You don't get to understand that which you refuse to see."

"And what would you have me see?"

Ben cared little if his phrasing angered her. He cared less if she dismissed his questions altogether. He was not interested in obtaining answers only she could provide. She wasn't the one he trusted. He looked at his son, Adam's sturdiness seeming so far way. The midwife was a trickster; he knew this, and he thought Adam knew it, too. Her offer was slightly tempting, however, the thought of seeing exactly how things had gone wrong for his sons almost too alluring to pass up. He would have to decline the offer, of course. He could not declare his trust in Adam only to betray it. If there were things his son did not want him to see, then so be it. He would choose to have faith that Adam had his reasons for keeping the information secret. For doing everything that he had, the details of which his father still did not know.

"Don't you understand?" Adam's tearful demand echoed torturously in his mind. "I did what I did to save Joe!"

Ben tilted his head, another memory rising unbidden.

"He hit me, Pa," Little Joe's admission resounded. His voice had sounded as thick and tearful as his older brother's had; his eyes, however, had shone with shame that hadn't accompanied Adam's declaration. "Only because I hit him first. I hit him, Pa, and he hit me back."

But in the moment Ben had been shown, Joe had not hit first. Were the elders trying to mislead him or was someone else? Ben had always believed his youngest son's memories to be confused, a suspicion Adam had all but confirmed.

"Either everything that has been shared is a lie or none of it is," the midwife said as though appraised of his thoughts. "Those are words you once said to me, now I'm saying them to you. You have to look at the whole picture; you can't pick and choose details which would suit your narrative best."

"I have no narrative."

"Don't you? In the story you tell yourself, your sons did nothing wrong. They came here and were victimized by this place and the people who inhabit it. Never once have you allowed yourself to believe that one or both of them are at fault."

"My sons didn't send telegraphs inviting themselves here. You were the one who did that."

"Then perhaps I'm the facilitator of true self-expression."

"I think you're the one at fault."

"I just brought them here. I didn't make their choices for them."

"No, you just set them up to fail. You lured them here with a lie. You led them up a rough road into an abandoned town. Of course, they were angry and tired and annoyed with each other when they first arrived here. Of course, they fought. Why does everyone think the notion of the two of them trading punches is some outlandish thing?"

"To you it isn't, but to the elders it is. Even so, your thoughts on the events are more important than theirs. Your sons are your flesh and your blood. Their strengths and weaknesses were sowed by you; they will be reaped by you, too."

"Now you're just repeating what the elders told me."

"And you're repeating the things you choose to believe." The midwife grinned, her eyes sparkling gleefully. "You don't know the truth because you refuse to allow yourself to see it, but…" Pausing, she lifted her hand and pointed at the jailhouse. The door of the building had inexplicably reappeared. "I could show you everything."

"By sharing the things my son does not wish me to see."

"He doesn't get to dictate or decide how this works, and neither do you. Walk through the door," the midwife implored. "See the things the elders have kept from you and know the secret your son kept, so that you can understand and accept what I wish you to have and that which I have taken from you."

"I won't do it."

"You will."

"I won't," Ben said firmly. "I can't be convinced to walk through that door. If you think it's going to change anything then you're wrong."

"No, it's you who is wrong. The truth will change everything."

"If that's true then why doesn't my son want to share it with me himself?"

"Because he's afraid of it. He's the one limiting your knowledge, not me, not the elders. He doesn't want you to see what really happened; he doesn't want you to know the truth."

"Which is what?" Ben scoffed. "What truth could possibly threaten Adam so much that he—"

"He could leave this place if he wanted to," the midwife said, a simple statement that threatened to steal away Ben's breath and bring him to his knees. "He could save himself, you, and your other sons, but he won't. He'd rather suffer forever and watch the three of you die then fulfill the promise he foolishly made."

"That's not true," Ben said, thoroughly shaken. "Adam wouldn't… he couldn't…"

"Secrets won't save your family, but, if you walk through that door, then you will learn a truth that will allow you to. All this time you've wasted believing answers lay in your ability to trust and have faith. Never for a second did you think that your confusion was because you yourself were not trusted." She tilted her head at the jailhouse. "There's truth to be found behind that door. Your son doesn't want you to know it. He doesn't want you to see that there is a very simple way out of all of this, a clear answer of how to save yours sons and yourself."

Appraising Adam, Ben searched for verification of something he could neither define nor articulate as he thought about everything the midwife had said and all that his son had not. Adam's back was turned, his shoulders slumped as he stared fruitlessly at the trailhead, seemingly unable to command his feet to carry him forward or back.

In his son's distant silence, Ben found nothing to calm his budding anxiety or assuage his emerging doubt. When he finally looked back at the midwife, she was gone. The door on the outside of the jailhouse had been left behind to taunt him with the answers it was likely to contain. And when Adam finally turned around, Ben caught his son's gaze and swore that although the door was fixed on the side of the jailhouse, it felt like it was standing between them. He thought about walking over, opening, and stepping through it, and he considered approaching his son and assuring Adam that he would never dare do such a thing. Stuck in the moment, he did neither.

TBC

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