Chapter 11 - Shadows over Clarksville
The flatbed car was a slab of cold iron exposed to the freezing rain. Nathan lay against the steel bulkhead, his legs completely numb, his uniform plastered with coal dust and road grime. Miller knelt beside him, shielding the leather ledger beneath his army field jacket.
For ninety minutes, the train groaned up the steep grade of the mountain pass, the air growing colder with every thousand feet of elevation. Nathan stared up into the black sky, his father's words echoing through the hollow chamber of his mind: A man doesn't break when his legs give out, Nate. He breaks when he forgets who he's standing for.
He thought of Leo on that station platform—the boy's little chest trembling, the hope in his hazel eyes when Nathan had raised his chin. The medals on Nathan's chest were cold as ice now, digging into his ribs, but they felt different. They were no longer symbols of a war he couldn't forget; they were a debt he had yet to pay.
At 1:15 AM, the train began its descent into the Clarksville rail yard. The brakes squealed, throwing sparks into the mist as the train slowed to a crawl through the switchyard.
""We're coming into the industrial siding,"" Miller whispered, his face streaked with soot. ""The state shelter is six blocks north of the yard.""
""Help me into the chair,"" Nathan said through chattering teeth.
Miller unfolded the metal frame, locked the braces, and eased Nathan into the seat. Nathan's hands were raw and blistered, but he took the wheel rims with a firm, practiced grip.
As the flatbed squeaked to a temporary halt at a red switch signal, Miller dropped off the side into the gravel, catching the chair as Nathan lowered himself down from the iron ledge. They were in the shadow of the Clarksville water tower, surrounded by the rotting brick shells of defunct textile mills.
Down the street, behind a high concrete wall topped with razor wire, sat the Clarksville State Child Assessment Facility. Its iron gate was locked, but the lights in the administrative wing were still burning brightly.
Suddenly, the red taillights of an unmarked black passenger van flashed in the shelter's driveway. Nathan recognized the silhouette of the man standing by the sliding door: Marcus Hale.
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Two staff members were walking out of the building, holding an umbrella over a small child bundled in an oversized coat.
""They're moving him tonight,"" Nathan breathed. ""Hale isn't waiting until morning.""
