“We don’t have much time. Let me ask you. What are you going to say to the cops when they arrive?” Before he could answer, Sam filled Joseph’s glass, which he downed in a desperate gulp.

  “She was telling me about the pregnancy. I was not in the mood to talk about it. I lifted the gun and …”

  “Why don’t you ask the cops to bring the noose, tie it around your neck, and be done with it quickly?” Sam spoke with a tone of irritation. “Think about consequences, clearly not your forte. Keep your answers as short as possible. No, you will remain silent and wait for your father’s lawyer to arrive. When the cops open the door and ask for an explanation, you simply tell them that you were cleaning the gun when it misfired. Do you get it?” Sam filled Joseph’s glass once more and urged him to drink it quickly.

  A few minutes passed, an eternity to Joseph, before a sharp knock on the door broke the silence. His breathing quickened, eyes darting to Sam, a look of sheer panic on his face. “I’m scared.”

  “Remember, it misfired. There’s no point in denying that you’ve been drinking,” Sam reminded him, his voice a whisper of command. “Go and open the door. Everything will sort itself out.”

  Joseph, feeling the room spin from the alcohol, stumbled as he approached the door. He managed to open it to find Officer Harris standing there. “Mr. Shivitzel, I understand there was a shooting here. We got a call.”

  Joseph’s face drained of color; he bent over, retching onto the floor. Officer Harris stepped back just in time, his expression a mix of disgust and concern. “Easy there, buddy. Let me help you.” The officers grabbed Joseph’s arm and guided him back inside, where they saw Ruth lying motionless on the floor.

  One of the officers checked her pulse, his face lighting up. “She has a pulse!”

  An ambulance siren grew closer, and paramedics soon burst in, quickly attending to Ruth. As she was wheeled out, the officers turned their attention to Joseph. “Sir, you’ll have to come with us to answer some questions,” Officer Harris said, his voice firm.

  Joseph tried to speak, "The gun…" Before he could finish his sentence, his legs gave out, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

  The next few hours passed in fragments. Hands lifting him, the jostling motion of being carried. Brief moments of semi-consciousness in a vehicle. He heard the screech of tires, murmured voices discussing his fate. Joseph drifted in and out, catching glimpses of fluorescent lights overhead, unfamiliar faces peering down at him with a mixture of concern and judgment. The sound of police sirens and

  They took him to the station. The chief eyed him and warned them, "He's not a regular." He was laid on a cot in an empty cell, the metal door clanging shut.

  Joseph had a difficult night. His dreams pulled him back to the cabin—he wandered through its shadowed halls, calling out for someone. But no one ever answered.

  In his dream, he went around the cabin into the shed. At the end of the cabin there was a furnace. He saw a beautiful wooden rocking chair recently varnished. He went outside and saw something in the distance by the trees. He heard a voice. “Aren’t you going to see who it is?” He could see him pointing at the distant figure. Joseph ran to the edge of his property to find an old Black man hanging by the neck. “George!” He couldn’t control the surge of emotions that followed.

  Joseph woke up to find himself in almost total darkness, drenched in sweat. Only the moonlight coming from a small window shed some light. “Having a bad dream, Joseph?” asked a familiar voice. Joseph looked at the neighboring cell and found Sam staring at him, his presence as unsettling as ever. Without any warning, Joseph threw up on the floor. It took a few minutes for him to compose himself.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Where are we?” Joseph looked at the unfamiliar setting, trying to figure out what was going on. He could barely make out the time on the clock that hung on the wall across the cell; it was 3:00 a.m.

  “You’ve been out for a while. The cops did treat you with kid gloves, if you’re wondering.”

  “Cops? Am I …?”

  “Yes, you are in a cell at the police station.” Joseph stood up and yelled, calling for someone to let him call his father as he tried in vain to shake the bars of his cell. “You’ll regret it!” said Joseph as he figured out that no one was coming from the station.

  “You’re not going to make any friends with that attitude.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “If I were you, I would be wondering how long you are going to be here instead.” Sam stuck his hand into the left pocket of his sports jacket, pulled out a pocket flask, swallowed a mouthful, and offered some to Joseph, who gladly drank generously before returning it to Sam.

  The memory of Ruth lying on the floor resurfaced, an unbearable consequence of his carelessness. Joseph inspected his surroundings once more and sighed, “Is this what the rest of my life will be like?”

  “You and I are going to get well acquainted before this ordeal is over. My guess is that it will be at least another couple of hours before your father comes and gets you out of here. You will have to deal with the judge. Your father must be calling a few favors as we speak.”

  “Why are you here? It’s not like you did anything terribly wrong.”

  “You know how cops are. Lock up first, ask questions later.”

  Sam leaned back, his eyes fixed on Joseph. “Joseph, there’s much for us to discuss.”

  Intoxicated, Joseph felt the warmth of the whiskey spread through him. He mumbled, “I had a nightmare. It’s not the first time I’ve had it.”

  “Let me guess,” interrupted Sam. “You arrived at your cabin and found a figure hanging from the trees somewhere on your property.”

  “How did you figure that out?” Joseph was already impressed by Sam’s sharp observations, but this was at a completely new level.

  “You’ve been talking in your sleep, or more like screaming. You have a serious problem. I bet your wife knows every little dirty secret of yours if you sleep like that at home.”

  Joseph extended his hand, and Sam passed him the flask once more. “What happened with Ruth? I vaguely remember hearing an ambulance.”

  “She’s alive, which is a good thing for you, but in a coma, which is not so good.”

  Sam took the flask back and put it in his pocket. Joseph stood up and started shaking in the dark. “Before we deal with your situation, I have some important information about your cabin and, ultimately, you.” He gestured toward the bench, and Joseph sat down. “You will appreciate what I have to say.”

  “I’m not in the mood. Just tell me how you can help me and skip the history lesson.”

  “We are going to be here for a while, and you have nothing else to do until daybreak. Would you rather spend your time counting the cracks in the ceiling? That cabin has a history of which you are part.”

  “I don’t see how knowing more about my cabin is going to help me right now. Why should I listen to it?”

  Sam focused on him, and replied "Because your life is tangled up with the previous owners of your cabin. After you hear what I have to say, that recurring nightmare of yours might finally start to make sense."

  “You will listen.” He paused. The air in the cell turned cold, stirred by an unseen force. His gaze sharpened, and his voice dropped. “You do not have a choice in the matter, my boy.”

  Joseph’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, as he cast a sidelong glance and gave a curt nod.

  “The cabin’s previous owner was named Shlomo Shivitzel, before him Yankov Shivitzel, his uncle, and before him Ari and Miriam Shivitzel, his parents.”

  Joseph straightened at the mention of the name Shivitzel, staring into the darkness that surrounded them with feigned indifference. Sam, noticing his reaction, delivered a sly remark. “Life is incredibly crafted at weaving threads between people,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly with piqued interest.