My nine-year-old son brought a shivering Golden Retriever puppy home from the edge of our gated community's perimeter fence.
At exactly 3:00 AM, the clinic’s front door burst open, slamming against the wall. Heavy footsteps echoed through the empty waiting room. Gideon Cross, followed by two other enclave security guards, strode into the clinic, their faces grim.
“Dr. Kincaid,” Gideon’s voice boomed, “you are in violation of a shunning order. Caleb Finch is to be removed immediately.”
Dr. Kincaid stepped between the guards and my office door, her small frame rigid. “You will not use physical force inside my facility,” she declared, her voice sharp. “This is a medical clinic. Any aggression, any breach of patient confidentiality, and I will trigger the county emergency medical beacon. It’s set for a direct line to the sheriff’s department, Gideon.”
Gideon hesitated, his eyes narrowing. The threat of outside authorities, the secular world, was usually enough to make enclave security back down.
But not tonight.
“This changes nothing,” Gideon said, pulling a folded document from his coat pocket. He presented it with a flourish. “I have an administrative court order, signed by Marcus Driscoll. It revokes Caleb Finch’s parental custody of Ethan, effective immediately. Due to alleged emotional neglect and spiritual contagion.”
My blood ran cold. Ethan. He was still sleeping in my office, nestled on the floor beside the computer desk.
“You can’t,” I choked out, pushing past Dr. Kincaid. “He’s my son.”
“The council has decreed it,” Gideon replied, his hand already reaching for the doorknob to my office. “He will be placed in communal care until your rehabilitation is complete. If ever.”
There was no time. I grabbed Ethan, who was stirring awake, and scooped up the puppy.
“Follow me!” Dr. Kincaid hissed, pointing towards a narrow metal door hidden behind a supply cabinet. “Laundry chute! Basement service tunnel!”
I didn’t hesitate. I slid Ethan feet-first into the dark opening, the puppy held tightly against his small chest. I followed, scraping my elbows and knees on the rough metal. We tumbled into the damp, cold basement.
“Go straight,” Dr. Kincaid’s voice echoed from above. “It leads out to the forest path, beyond the eastern fence line.”
We scrambled through the concrete tunnel, the clinic’s generator humming above us. The tunnel opened into the dense birch forest lining the mountain ridge. The air outside was frigid.
Snow had begun to fall, thick flakes swirling around us, already blanketing the ground. We ran, stumbling through the deepening drifts, until we found the faint outline of an abandoned timber storage barn.
The door hung loose on one hinge. Inside, it was dark, dusty, and unheated. But it was shelter. I pulled the door shut, barring it with a rusted piece of pipe.
Huddled together on a pile of moldy hay, illuminated only by the faint glow of a single oil lantern, we listened to the blizzard rage outside. The Hill House sector was somewhere nearby, just beyond the treeline, hidden by the relentless snow.
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