A STORY ABOUT ONE BOY
The wind always sounded different near the sea. That Tuesday evenfall, it whistled low and sharp against the roof of a boy’s shed, rattling it like the dance of a pot’s lid over boiling water. Inside, the boy crouched over an old carburetor, grease painting the creases of his hands. He liked the quiet of this place — the seagull noise outside, the tide’s rhythmic breath, and the solitude.
His phone buzzed.
“What are you doing?” his friend’s voice cracked through the line, bright with some private excitement.
“Fixing the carburetor,” he muttered.
“What does that even mean, bro?” his friend asked.
“I’m repairing the neighbor’s car.”
“That’s awesome, dude!” His friend laughed out loud. “And a serious question… How do you get cars to your shed through all that beach sand?”
“It’s just one car,” the boy emphasized. “And I’m grateful. This gig pays a little extra now that I’m not in school at the moment.”
There was a brief silence that spoke the truth, and that truth hurt.
“About that… I totally missed you today, man. Went to the Rotunda to meet up for lunch,” his friend said finally, his voice breaking. “Then the library. All the places we used to meet. But you were nowhere to be found. That’s when I remembered you dropped out. High school just isn’t the same without you.”
And as if on cue, the sound of a seagull screaming butted into the conversation.
the boy countered, “You know what I miss? The library.”
His friend burst into laughter, wiping his eyes. “So what, you're gonna be a mechanic now?”
“Good money,” the boy shrugged. “And it's what I’m doing right now.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the only thing you’re good at, my friend. But I’ve got more work for you. Are you free this weekend?”
“I am, but I have to go see my mom this weekend,” the boy said.
“It’s for this Friday. An overnight catering shift at the restaurant. 10pm to 10am. I told my manager about you.”
The wrench in the boy’s hand stilled—
“Yeah,” he said, heart flickering like a bulb. “Yeah, I’ll do it. I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Anytime, man. How’s your mom doing, by the way?”
There was a pause before the boy answered, “She says she’s getting better.”
Quietly, his friend said, “Hey… I love you, man. Do what you gotta do. I’ll always be here.”
Then — an immediate click. The call hung up.
The boy stared at his phone, stunned. Then he laughed to himself:
“I love you too, man.”
A text blinked in:
“Meet me at the restaurant Friday @10pm.”
The boy laughed. “I wonder why he didn’t say that over the phone.”
For him, the day couldn’t have ended any better.
“Woohoo!” the boy said as he jumped for joy.
(The seagull flies away.)
—
THE RESTAURANT
The boy arrived at his friend’s restaurant by 9:45 pm. He was just done talking to his mother on the phone when his friend handed him a smoothly folded uniform, along with a name tag. The boy didn’t see him at first, so he didn’t notice that his friend was caught off guard by his early arrival, sweat forming on his forehead. He wiped it.
“Punctual as always. Of course that’s not surprising.”
The boy turned upon hearing the voice, smiling as his friend approached him.
“Here’s your attire for the night and a name tag. The changing room's over there,” he said, directing the boy towards a locker room. “I have to call my girlfriend real quick,” he continued.
The boy couldn’t help his laughter. “You guys are still together? For more than three months? Wow.”
His friend countered immediately. “No way bro, different girl. I really like this one.”
The boy shook his head, looking speechless, bubbling up with laughter that he tried to hold in. But the laughter popped up like bubbles—individually, and in increments.
“Alright, if you say so. I’ll be right back. Thank you again, I really appreciate it. My mom said thank you too.”
His friend got emotional, eyes gluing with tears. “Go change already, geez.”
Moments later, The boy returned, suited up in his work uniform for the night. He didn’t have his name tag on. Since it was just for one night, he decided there was no use for it and so slipped it into his left chest pocket. His friend looked at him, almost fatherly.
“It’s exactly 9:58 pm. I have to get going now. Remember, keep your head down. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Seriously—stay invisible. Trouble always finds you here.”
“Okay, Dad,” the boy said sarcastically.
His friend wasn’t so far behind. “Have a good night, son,” he said, waving the boy goodbye.
“You too. See you when you get back,” The boy said, waving back.
It was supposed to be just another typical Friday night. Everything seemed to be going well. The boy would finally make something to pay for the incurring bills. Thanks to a great friend who told him of the opportunity, a chance to mingle with the big guys and maybe learn something from them. All he had to do was stock and serve drinks.
However, when the boy carried champagne to a corner table, he heard something he shouldn’t have… something he regretted hearing so much he had to think fast, compose himself, keeping up his appearance. The boy was frightened.
(Inaudible)
RICH MAN #1: “When it comes to money, everyone’s getting all worked up like they're crazy. Just look at him, smiling.”
HOARSE VOICE: (observing the boy) “What’s your name, young man?”
The Boy froze. His heart pounded. His instinct did not fail him—although he stammered.
THE BOY: “Na—me, Name! (English)
Yes, Yes… My name is—”(He said in Spanish)
Why Spanish? At an English event? The boy had no idea, but that was his go-to at the time. He had taken a few spanish lessons back in high-school.
There was tension in the air. Guards shifted. Did it work? The boy thought.
But before he could give out any name he could think of, the manager suddenly stormed in, voice tight:
MANAGER: “What do you think you’re doing? Get to work!"
RICH MAN #2: (serious face)
MANAGER: “He’s new here, we needed extra hands. I apologize on his behalf for making conversation. They’re not allowed to speak to guests.”
The guests at the table laughed it off. Another rich-looking man waved his hand, and a guard spoke something into his walkie-talkie. By then, the boy was already on the move. He had slipped away faster than anyone could say the word RUN. Down the foyer. Through the valet exit. Into the shadows. He felt like he was in hot waters.
He crouched behind a car in the parking lot of the venue. Not long after, four men in dark suits—different men from the guards on the inside—scanned the area. The boy almost made a sound, alarmed at how fast they had come after him. And they were getting too close. The Boy thought that was the end for him.
The world stilled.
All of a sudden, he felt a hand over his mouth. Time slowed, everything stood still like mannequins for a split second, including the guards who were sure they’d heard a noise. That is, until the boy felt a swift pull—too fast to react to. Then—an onyx nothing.
When his vision cleared, he was underground.
The boy found himself in an underground bunker.
—
THE BUNKER
The boy blinked, disoriented. The air smelled damp—metallic. He took in his surroundings: a low-ceilinged room, humming lights, concrete walls. Around him were about ten others dressed just like him, each holding a small calendar, methodically crossing off dates.
Finally, he looked at the man in a red shirt. He wasn’t one of the men from the parking lot. And judging by what he said next, it was as if he could read the boy’s thoughts.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “I’m the man who just saved your life. It’ll do you some good to cooperate.”
He emphasized the word as if it were a warning rather than advice.
THE BOY: (Worried, attempted to get the accents right as he spoke in Spanish) “But, my mother…”
MAN IN RED SHIRT: (responding, too calmly) “She’s being taken care of right now. She’s been moved to a different location. She’s in safe hands.”
His tone was gentle—but sterile. Rehearsed.
The boy’s hands trembled.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “You’ll be provided with all your basic needs. And the restaurant manager will have your friend’s vacation extended for thirty days, so he doesn’t get involved.”
Then came the question.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “I don’t want you to feel pressured.” (Pauses) “What did you hear?”
The boy hesitated, his mind was racing.
THE BOY: (Nervous, blurting) “Nothing! I really heard…”
He stopped himself.
THE BOY: “Nothing! (English)
Nothing. I don’t know.” (He said in spanish)
The man in red studied him for a long moment, eyes narrow but calm.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: (Nods) “Good. Thirty days. We’ll keep you safe.”
THE BOY: “Okay… (English)
Thank you.” (Spanish)
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “Any devices on you—including your phone—will be monitored.”
THE BOY: “Ah, the telephone… I left it in the locker, man.” (His voice breaks.) “There’s nothing on me. Nothing. I just came to work… (English)
I'm sorry.” (Spanish)
One of the other men rose and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
GUY: “All will be well, kid.”
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “What’s your name?”
The boy didn’t answer. His chest heaved. The man in red waited, patient.
GUY: (Quietly, guiding him to a seat) “Take a breath.”
The boy pressed his palms to his face. A sound escaped him—half sob, half exhale—as if the fear was finally catching up.
The room fell silent except for the steady hum of the underground lights.
Every day after that, the same question popped up.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “What did you hear?”
And every day, The boy grew more suspicious—yet his answer never changed.
THE BOY: “Nothing, man. Nothing.”
It felt like an interrogation disguised as hospitality. Still, he worked, cleaned, served, and did every chore handed to him. It kept his mind busy.
Because of his quiet diligence, he made acquaintances—one of them, a jovial Spanish guy who befriended the somewhat obsequious boy, after observing how helpful he was. The boy's clothes reminded him of a restaurant server in the midst of them all.
Days blurred together. Ten of them passed before the boy noticed that half the people who’d been there were gone. At first, he assumed they’d completed their thirty days and gone home. But one man had told him he still had five days left. He wasn’t around anymore.
The boy started paying closer attention.
Every hour felt longer than the last, as though he were stuck working the night shift on the longest Friday of his life— Catering to everyone except himself. It came in handy, ultimately proving conducive to his freedom.
It was also to his benefit that he could speak some Spanish. His only real companion—the Spanish friend—had begun to look uneasy too. He’d even started asking the same question, over and over.
SPANISH FRIEND: “What did you hear?” (He asked in Spanish)
THE BOY: “Nothing man” (He responded in Spanish)
SPANISH FRIEND: (Smiles faintly.)
—
DAY 27
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “Three more days left. How are you holding up?”
THE BOY: “How’s my mom doing?”
MAN IN RED SHIRT: “She’s doing great. You’ll be seeing her soon. Thank you for cooperating.” (Pauses, tone shifting) “You know, for someone who speaks Spanish, you’re quite good at understanding me when I speak English.”
The words landed wrong. There was something off about his tone—too measured, too knowing.
The boy said nothing, pretending not to understand. He kept his eyes on the floor until the man left.
Later that day, his Spanish friend pulled him aside. His eyes looked haunted.
SPANISH FRIEND: (Whispering) “Pssst… friend (in spanish), you need to leave. Don’t let them take you to the back. I’m sorry for playing along—but save yourself.”
He slipped the boy a small pistol.
THE BOY: (Alarmed, whispering) “I—I don’t even know how to use this.”
SPANISH FRIEND: “You don’t have to. Better to be safe than sorry… (Pauses) You know, someone once told me—you’ve already won if you never have to fire it.” he said, without an accent.
(He smiles faintly.) “I speak English too, friend.”
Then he disappeared into the shadows, moving like a man who’d already said too much.
The boy stood there, frozen, the small pistol cold in his hands.
He wasn’t sure what his friend meant by “I speak English too, friend ”, but deep down, he knew—the man had seen through his accent from the very beginning.
And maybe that was his silent warning.
—
THE JUNKYARD
That night, The boy followed the directions — right, right, then a left — leaving earlier than 10 p.m. His pulse throbbed in his ears as he moved through dim corridors toward the back of the room, taking another right. Cameras watched from above, their red lights blinking. To avoid suspicion, he forced a smile at one of them, though his stomach twisted.
Beyond the last hallway was a junkyard — open air, broken cars, rusting metal, and silence thick as oil. Freedom was near.
Or maybe not.
Someone laid face down by an old car. The Boy froze. It was his Spanish friend.
He panicked. Was it a dream?
Before he could move, footsteps echoed. He dove behind another car just as the man in the red shirt stepped into view, cigarette burning between his fingers, phone to his ear.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: Three more days left, and he still says he heard nothing. Unfortunately, we can’t let him go. I’ll see you Friday night.
The boy peered across the junkyard. Beyond the fence, a quiet street glowed under yellow lamps. Across it — an IHOP.
THE BOY: (whispers, thinking out loud) 10 pm. Friday, while he’s gone. Not tonight.
More men appeared. He ducked low.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: Hey, you guys! Over here! Clean up the mess.
Someone responded — in German.
The boy’s stomach dropped. He understood. One of seven languages he could breeze through.
THE BOY: (Under his breath) Sorry, amigo. I did hear something. But saying nothing won’t save me either.
It was Tuesday, 9:53 p.m.
Freedom was across the street, so close — pancakes away.
THE ESCAPE — FRIDAY, DAY 30
Friday morning, the Spanish friend was back.
Quiet. Somewhat pale. Different.
For a second, The boy thought he was seeing a ghost.
THE BOY: Hello friend. (Spanish)
No response. The man’s eyes were empty — alive, but not there.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: How are you doing?
THE BOY: (forcing accent) Pretty good. It’s day thirty. I can’t wait to see my mom again.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: About that — great news. She’s fully recovered.
THE BOY: (voice breaking) Really? That’s… that’s good.
MAN IN RED SHIRT: You don’t sound too happy about it.
THE BOY: My mother (Spanish)… I see her tomorrow. (English)
MAN IN RED SHIRT: (skeptical) Right. I forgot you speak Spanish.
Later that night, 9:45 pm. The boy slipped out again — same route, back of the bunker. Cars rolled in and out of the lot. He hid behind one, then climbed inside, heart hammering, maneuvering the car’s ignition when the engine came alive. Finally, he drove across the street and parked at the IHOP where he put on his name tag, pistol still hidden in his side.
THE BOY: (Enters IHOP, name tag flashes) “Hello Ma’am. It’s my first day.”
LADY AT REGISTER: (Without Looking Up)
“Grab a shirt in the office”
He did, blending in just fine. He served coffee, refilled syrup bottles, and wiped tables.
The boy worked exactly 4 hours before sneaking off to “take a break.” That was right around 2:00 am.
That’s when the lady at the register finally looked up at the boy. Concerned, she signed the cross, whispering a prayer, as if witnessing a scene she had seen before, hoping for a different ending.
Once outside, The boy made his way to a payphone, using some quarters he found laying on the ground as he was sweeping around the drive thru of the IHOP. He made the call then, and another to kill his curiosity.
The first call was to the hospital. His mother hadn't been relocated. The second call, the one he wished most he wouldn’t be right about, was to his friend from high school, the one who helped him out with the night job. He answered his phone on the first ring, worried sick about The boy.
FRIEND: Is it you? Where are you? Are you okay? Did you hear something?
That question again. The boy hadn’t even gotten a word out yet, so he hung up the phone, getting back to the parked car. One thing was certain, he couldn’t trust anyone, especially his so-called friend.
However, before the boy drove off, he noticed two men walking into the IHOP. Their hand gestures seemed to be pointed at checking the cameras. Familiar faces. Again, the lady at the register didn’t glance at them. As usual, her head was down, as if to say she saw nothing at all.
LADY AT REGISTER: You’ll have to speak with the manager — he’s not here right now.
By sunrise, the boy reached the hospital.
His mother had grown even more frail, worried sick. He cried, clutching her hands, apologizing for the month he’d been gone.
Through the grand double-sided window behind her, he caught a glimpse of a face — one of the guards in dark shades, standing underneath a fall tree across the street. Watching.
Then it hit the boy like the fright of a thunder strike. He remembered faces too.
One look was enough.
No thirty-day limit.
“What did you hear?” A memory flashed from his childhood, the speaker looked familiar. An old man. The same one that sat at the mysterious table of rich men. Something finally clicked into place, like the mechanisms of an old watch starting to work again.
His father’s friend!
He reached instinctively for the pistol, hidden underneath his clothes, the one his Spanish friend had given him. Trembling. Then, slowly, he put his hand to his ears. Haunted by noise, by memory, by truth.
His mother watched — afraid to ask — wondering what her son had endured during those thirty long days.
UNEARTHED SECRETS
The next morning, The boy walked the long dirt road toward his shed by the sea, sorting out memories from his childhood. The more he thought about it, his father never said goodbye to him the last he’d seen him, just “see you soon son.”, with a wide smile on his face. He never came back home after that. The boy got emotional. Up ahead, a familiar voice called out, snapping the boy from his thoughts — his friend’s voice.
The boy froze, then plunged into motion. He quietly sprinted the few steps to the low, wooded bridge, ducking and scrambling beneath the beams. He didn’t slow down; instead, he committed to the drop, sliding on the slick, under the side of the wooden bridge. He utilized the sandy embankment as a chute to coast silently into the deep shadow behind his shed. The sudden gust of wind, a common sound there, instantly swallowed the scraping noise of his slide.
FRIEND: (Calling out) Hello! You here, man?
The boy held his breath.
Moments later, his friend’s tone changed. He pulled out his phone to call his “girlfriend.”
FRIEND: (Quietly) Yeah. I haven't seen him.
The boy peered around the corner — and saw a black SUV pull up. Two guards stepped out. One of them laughed.
GUARD 1: You might wanna quit calling the boss your girlfriend, man. The boss finds out, you’re done.
The Boss, a man that his father favorited.
GUARD 2: (grinning) We all know it’s him you're calling anyway.
The boy’s chest tightened. His friend’s “girlfriend” was in fact a code name for his boss. The boy remembered all the times his friend had stepped aside just to call one of his girlfriends. It was all a lie to cover up that he was in cahoots with a bad guy...
Then, stepping out from behind the SUV, came the Spanish friend. Looking alive.
His walk was stiff, movements off-beat, his eyes too still from what he could see.
The boy’s mind reeled. He clutched the pistol his real friend, the Spanish guy he once knew, had given him.
The Spanish friend turned to face the boy's friend who was on the phone. He didn’t speak.
FRIEND: (Still on the phone) I’m still not sure, but he seems to have some abilities. Not as much as his father as far as I could tell.
THE BOSS: He didn’t wear the name tag, so we couldn’t confirm it was him. Your father was disappointed. (Pauses for effect). Even so, the boy looks more like his mother. How many years were you in school with him anyway?
FRIEND: (Smiles, more to himself) Since freshman year. So about three years now.
THE BOSS: And you still couldn’t figure out if he had abilities or not? I see why your father likes me better.
FRIEND: (Offended, but on the offense) NO.
There was anger laced in his “No”. However, it was a strange “No,” as if there was truth hidden beneath it that he held back. As if maybe he did know about his friend’s ability the whole time. Either way, the shift in the boy’s tone scared the boss.
Hiding behind his shed, The boy had been recording the entire conversation with his mother’s phone, volume and brightness all the way down and “dnd” turned on— not missing a single word.
A chill ran through the boy. But then it got quiet, so he carefully took a peek to see what was going on.
He witnessed one of the guards touch the forehead of his Spanish friend. The man blinked. His eyes flickered like a short circuit. They left him there as bait, driving the car off the beach, a short distance away while they waited.
GUARD 2: It’s strange. He never speaks.
GUARD 1: Who?
GUARD 2: The Spanish guy. I tried a few times to see what it was but the programming code looks right. Everything checks out.
GUARD 1: It happens. Let’s check that out later. We must get the boy first.
GUARD 2: (Concerned, whispers) Yeah. But it’s also true that the big boss’s experiments are failing lately.
GUARD 1: (Shocked, Smacks GUARD 2 on the head) Shut up you idiot. You’re lucky no one else heard you say that.
The boy didn’t move until their car disappeared into the horizon.
THE BOY: (Speaks Aloud Looking at his Spanish Friend) I’m so sorry Amigo.
As the boy leaves the way he came, there’s one thing he misses. A tear drop fell from his Spanish friend’s eye as he looked his way, stiff-necked, only long enough to not alert the others.
(After a while, when everyone leaves and the coast is clear, Spanish guy makes his way into the boy’s shed and let's out a deep breath. He was finally free.)
One thing was clear. The boy finally understood; the rich man — the one his father once worked for — hadn’t been just a business partner or someone he went to school with. He’d been using his father’s research in his genetics to create guards, replicas… modern day soldiers. And now they were running out of steam.
He understood now that he wasn’t hiding from monsters — he was proof of their monstrosity.
He made his way back to the hospital, exhausted from fighting adrenaline. He showed his mother the recording, and her expression hardened. She listened all the way through, anger surging as she held the phone in her hand. Anger that fueled her. It was as if she was never even ill, and if not, then she concealed it perfectly. She made several calls after, her voice sharp as glass. Within hours, the story broke across every major news outlet:
“Private Security Network Exposed: Replication Linked to Missing Scientist.”
The boy’s neighbor even appeared on the local evening news:
NEIGHBOR: I saw those men — in black suits, dark shades — always coming around. We started feeling unsafe. The Scientist, when he went missing… We found it suspicious. We all loved him, his son and wife too. I guess we finally got some answers. Them too. (Looks away from the screen, a sad expression flashed across his face)
By midnight, the whole country was talking about it.
Although the boy didn't watch the news, the newscast made their way to the hospital he was cocooned in with his mother. He wasn’t so sure but he could tell she was sad, no matter how much of a braveface she put on.
Another message popped on the screen "Missing Scientist Appears To Be Out Of Hiding!"
Even though the boy hadn't seen it yet, he sat by the window of their hospital room, staring at the commotion four floors below.
Somewhere down there, someone would still be asking that same question —
“What did you hear?”
And this time, the boy knew the answer.
He remembered everything, and the bad in the past was behind him now.
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