The cries of Brian reverberate throughout the boxed-in bed frame of the truck. I tug and tug on the door handle. Paint chips embed themselves in the creases of my fingers. I let go, sighing in agony and utter to the boy “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Brian, no older than five, cannot hear me. There he sits in the corner of this box truck, hopeless, almost lifeless. The backs of his hands lay a top of the blood that encircles him. The gash on his forehead is no longer red, but turning blacker as my gaze intensifies. My mind races for a solution. Who could do this to a child? How can I get out of here? This boy needs help!

Right on cue I hear clip-clop, clip-clop, a pair of tactical leather boots approaches from the outside. Keys rattle. The door creaks and pierces my ear as if a rock were being dragged along a train track. A white light blinds me. I clench my eyelids closed.

—

Wind chimes erupt from my iPhone and without hesitation I spring up from bed exclaiming, “Its moving day!” My girlfriend Melissa delivers a subtle death stare through one eye, “Ugh, SJ, why are you such a morning person?”

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! We gotta go get the truck!” I call out in an operatic tone.

Breakfast down, teeth brushed, and we’re on the road. The morning is going smooth for the most part except locating the U-Haul rental location. We notice a fleet of trucks behind a gas station which looks as if it hasn’t been updated since Rockefeller first learned how to refine oil into gas.

“Ah, this must be it,” the reluctance pours from me.

“U-Haul rental in back” reads the sign clinging to the entrance of the gas station. I journey towards the back of the building. A trailer appears with a “U-Haul Rental” sign written in black ink. A man leaning on the railing of the entrance ramp holding a chipped coffee mug looks up, “You McLaren?”

“Yes, sir” I reply.

“Okay, let’s get you on the road. I’m Tim. Good to meet ya.”

We enter the trailer which has been outfitted to look like a makeshift office. It's quiet, no TV, no radio. There’s a worn-in brown leather sofa to my left. A round coffee table with one leg balanced by a drink coaster stands before it. Tim’s office is to my right. Through a window, I see papers scattered about his desk. A folded-out futon sits a few feet from it. An expressionist painting of what seems to be a screaming face looms above. "What an odd setup," I thought. Towards the back is a counter with U-Haul’s signage stretched overhead. Tim shuffles behind the counter. As he ruffles through a small stack of papers, I question internally “Why did I pick this place?”

“Ah, got your reservation right here. One twenty-foot box truck, two dollies, for eight hours?” Tim asks.

“Yep, that’s it…”, but during my response our cell phones joined in unison belting out a disruptive, repetitive beeping noise. Tim is quick to silence his.

“Damn Amber alerts, that's the second one this week. Can't stand 'em,” says Tim.

“I wonder if it's the same guy. Him and his old lady must not be on good terms,” I remark with a subtle laugh.

Tim nods with a slight scowl, scans me for a second, “Keys are in the truck. Take the one closest to the woods. Have it back by five. Don't get lost now.”

“I should have it back before then.” I proceed out towards the lot. I wave Melissa over pointing to the truck closest to the woods. Low laying tree branches wrap over top of the box bed, almost hidden. Melissa hops in the passenger side. I wrestle with a few of the tree branches before ripping open the driver side door. I swing into the driver side seat and turn the ignition. "Stuck in the Middle" by Stealers Wheel comes blaring out of the dashboard startling Melissa. I turn down the knob and we start our descent.

Not a cloud is in the sky with the exception of a few white stripes left by passing jets. Traffic is minimal which is ideal given the fact I drive a box truck once every three to five years. Sirens begin to emerge from the distance. I glance at my side view mirrors but only see the red Mercedes passing to my left. The sirens grow louder. Now, red, white, blue dance about on the driver side mirror. Before I have a chance to check the passenger side mirror, a black suburban slices before me causing me to veer to the shoulder. I feel the weight of the truck push against my back as I brake. The box bed jolts side-to-side. The rumble strips roar shaking the chassis. I panic and cry out loud, "I wasn't speeding! What the fuck is this?"

The following moments are a blur. My watch would indicate we were there for over an hour, but time had ceased. My hands slide off the steering wheel as my face is implanted against the coarse bits of black top. Hands flailing into two chained steel traps. Hands yanked back, arms whisked up, I'm stumbling.

Intense eyes filled with rage continue to pierce through mine. "Show me your hands! Show me your hands!" echoes across the highway.

"My hands? My hands are right here. Melissa? Where is Melissa?" circulates my mind, but I feel no words escape me.

"Get off of him! Get off of him!" Melissa's shrieks add to this melody of confusion.

Then, everything goes silent. My inner dialogue is a flatline on an EKG. My eyes are fixated towards the back of the box bed on a cotton swab pulling up dried red flakes from the floor. I feel the metal cuffs dig into my wrists again. My hands are being directed to the police car. I feel a hand on top of my head as I'm tipped over into the backseat. I pull myself upright. I can feel the chain of the handcuffs embedding right above my tailbone. This is not my intended destination.

My thoughts are static on 1980's television. I'm in a dark room besides the giant white light just above my head. My hands, freed now, are collapsed on a metal table. The officer is speaking to me, but it sounds muddled and slow. He's fading in and out of my vision like rolls of smoke from a campfire. In an instant, he comes together, full figure, live in color uttering the word "murder".

I can feel my esophagus tighten. I struggle to squeeze out a response. I manage to muster, "What? What are you..."

Before I finish my query, the officer lays down a stack of letter-sized pictures. They scatter about the table. One slides onto my lap. I pick it up and lay it back on the table. It's a snapshot of CCTV footage of the back of U-Haul box truck reminiscent of the one Melissa and I rented. I look to my right, my stomach hollows, eyes swell. It's a young boy, slouched against the front passenger-side corner of the truck bed, shirt drenched in blood, and a large gash above his left eye.

The officer points to the photo, "That, is Brian Peterson. Brian lives a few houses down from you. Do you know Brian?"

"I d-don't, but I, I've seen him m-maybe once or twice? He lived with his m-mother, but, but they just moved in recently. I don't, I don't..." as I fumble through a response the officer palms the table, leaning over towards me.

With wincing eyes, the officer commands "Maybe you should rest up and we'll talk again tomorrow."

I hear a door open behind me. I stand upright. The handcuffs clench my wrists again. "Let's go," says the guard.

I'm directed towards the back of the station where a few of the holding cells are. My eyes scour the space searching for Melissa, but I do not see her. "She must still be in questioning," I thought.

The guard opens the gate to my new home. I lay down on my concrete bed. The gate closes. My mind races. None of this makes sense. I close my eyes hoping to wake up from this nightmare.

___

Startled, my eyes reopen, fluttering about the brick and mortar that surrounds me. The smell of dust and stagnant water reenters my nose. Reality comes back into focus. I do not recognize this man before me, but he is dressed like all of the others. He recognizes me. He says the words I’ve been waiting for, “Mr. McLaren, you are free to go.”

My enthusiastic ascent is tempered. My brief slumber on a cement chaise somehow managed to infuse every fiber in my body together. I manage to swing my legs out front. Now sitting upright, behind a muted grin, I muster “And where is Melissa?”

“She’s been freed too. She’s in the main lobby waiting for you.” The officer replies.

“Good.” I quip with a slight disdain. The fear from earlier morphed to anger. I can feel it pouring from me.

“Y’know, most people in your situation would be thrilled.” He advises unsolicited.

I utter a sarcastic “Yeah,” and proceed towards the lobby.

I’m met by my girlfriend with great embrace. She’s sobs, “Ugh, I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t believe this happened.”

“These guys are idiots. Let’s go home.” My enthusiasm returns.

As we exit the lobby, I notice a man performing the same walk of shame Melissa and I did several hours ago. His eyes peer up to mine for a moment. I think I recognize this man.

My uncontained disbelief blurts out, "Is that Tim?"

"Can you believe Cherol was married to that monster?" Melissa wonders.

"Our neighbor Cherol?" Then, realization began to course through me. I never asked Cherol much about her ex-husband. I knew she was eager to leave. Then again, she didn't volunteer that he was a psychopath posing as a U-Haul salesman.

"She must be devastated. I couldn't imagine losing a son. Especially, like that." I add.

"Yeah, those pictures were gruesome. Luckily, they were able to save Brian. Can you believe we were actually at the scene of the crime?!" Melissa's words usher in some clarity, but questions remain.

"It's crazy to think we were there! But, Brian was still alive in the picture? How were we able to still rent that truck?" My mind trying to unravel this web of confusion.

Melissa points to the TV on the lobby wall. The news caption reads, "U-Haul Kidnapper Arrested: Two Boys Found Alive." I step closer to take a listen.

"Brian Peterson was found early this morning in an abandoned U-Haul truck behind Providence Manufacturing. Brian was suffering from a blunt force trauma to his head, but luckily law enforcement arrived in time to help save the five-year old boy. He is currently at St. Mary's Hospital expected to make a full recovery. This discovery led to finding our second missing child, Conrad Hughes, at a local U-Haul rental owned by suspect Tim Peterson, Brian Peterson's father. A couple was arrested earlier..." The newscast fades as I turn back towards Melissa.

"Well, if I needed more of a reason to move, I have it now!" I joke.

"Don't be silly, SJ. It was all just one big misunderstanding!"