Page 64 of Man On

There are three other people with similar charges, and a so-called doctor that was practicing without a license. He's got two manslaughter charges under his mugshot in addition to a long list of others.

Jesus.

I find an article that mentions what was found on the fifty-acre compound, and pictures that look like they were taken in another era. Over one hundred people lived in what looks like their own little village. There's a schoolhouse, a doctor's office, a barber for men, and a general store. Every family had a little house with a garden. There was livestock and a greenhouse. The article says it was almost completely self-sufficient aside from the electricity.

It looks like an innocent little town from the past. Except that around the compound are fences, high ones with barbed wire around them. I knew they were closed off from the outside world. Hannah and Dad had mentioned it to explain some of Lane's odd behavior, but hearing that and seeing this is a different level of understanding. This wasn’t just a church community. It was a prison.

I want to look away from the dozens of articles, some of them clearly sensationalized, but I can't. It's like craning your neck to see a car accident when you pass by, except this crash involves people you know and care about. It feels wrong to look away because I'm uncomfortable. Thinking about what I’m pretty sure happened to Hannah makes me sick, and angry so angry—but she's the one that lived it. Survived it. The least I can push myself to do is read a little about how they lived so I can understand them better. So I can be there for them. So I can understand what the fuck is going on in that giant stoic man's head when he shuts down on me.

But then I find some information I almost wish I hadn't. Information about the upcoming documentary about Deliverance Summit Church. The promise of leaked photographs and footage, and live interviews of survivors, so the public can watch and gawk at the pain of real people. Live broadcast! Next Sunday at eight P.M. Eastern!

Then there’s the entire reason the compound was raided in the first place, after years of investigation. A youth summer camp created ten years ago that offered reparative therapy for ‘wayward boys experiencing identity confusion and unnatural predilections.’

Oh, Lane.

No wonder he's so repressed and afraid of who he is. I wonder how much of that he saw. He must have seen and heard terrible things. I knew his grandfather was a pastor, and was very Old Testament scary, as my dad put it. But how unhinged does someone have to be to actually run a conversion therapy camp?

My stomach rolls again, and I'm regretting eating at all today, although it's been hours. It's almost dinnertime, and Lane still isn't back. Is he still with Danny? Is he talking to him about all of this right now?

I can't decide if I'm jealous, or if I just feel bad that I don't know what to do with this information.

Afraid I might wear a path in the floor from my pacing, I decide to move to the sitting room to do our yoga routine and try some new, difficult poses. The exercise helps clear my mind.

When I get out of the shower, Lane’s shoes are on the shelf and his door is closed. When I press my ear against it, I hear soft music playing. He doesn’t come out for the rest of the night, and I go to bed early so I’m not too tempted to bother him.

A low, mournful moan pulls me from the most bizarre dream.

It’s just past two in the morning when I lift my head to check my alarm clock. I was too restless earlier to fall asleep easily. I don't think I finally dozed off until around midnight.

There’s another sound, like someone being punched in the stomach, and that gets me out of my bed. I run to Lane’s room, pressing my ear to his door again. I've heard him talk in his sleep, and even cry, although I'd never tell him I witnessed it. But this time, it sounds like he’s struggling, like someone could be in there with him.

I try the door, and the knob thankfully turns. The light from the kitchen casts a soft glow into the room as the door opens.

Lane is thrashing around in his bed, blankets thrown off, sheets tangled around his big body.

"No, no, no! Please!"

Most of his words are unintelligible. But I hear something that sounds like an apology. He calls out for his grandfather, and it’s followed by more thrashing and pleading.

I should do something. Anything. I call out his name, but then wonder if I should wake him. Is this a nightmare? You’re not supposed to wake someone in the middle of a nightmare, right?

Fear clutches my chest, but I move to his side, unable to bear to watch him struggle like this. My hand trembles when I reach out, gently shaking his leg. He kicks out, screaming, "No!", and scrambles back into the pillows.

"Lane, it's me. It's Noah," I say, as calmly as possible, but he's shaking his head back and forth, and using his hands to pull something invisible off his face and arms.

He’s scratching himself, so I try grabbing his hands, but he swings. I back away, watching helplessly, until he seems to calm down a little. He’s muttering to himself, and looking around the room, but not really seeing. His arms wrap around his body and he lurches forward, moaning a painful, guttural, “Nooo!” that I feel in my chest. He's pulling at his shirt, and I’m worried he’ll start scratching himself again.

Darting forward, I slide behind him, wrapping my arms around his and holding him tight. He fights me for a few moments, and I struggle to hold on.

“Shhh. It’s me, Lane. It’s Noah!” I yell.

“Noah?” His voice is shaky and low, barely above a whisper. He seems confused, but when he registers my name, he calms, and sinks into my embrace.

I lay frozen, arms wrapped around his wide chest, while he drifts off. I stay until I can’t feel his heartbeat thudding violently through his back, and his breaths are even. When I finally pull away, I do so slowly, and I sit on his desk chair for a while and watch him sleep.

“What did they do to you?”

CHAPTER 20

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