Unwind: Parts 6–7

Nestled on a pine-covered ridge in northern Arizona, the sedating forest views give way to the breathtaking red mountains of Sedona to the west. No doubt it was the view that made happy men of the twentieth century lumberjacks who founded the town.

Once in a while, a particularly troublesome Unwind is singled out and publicly humbled for all to see before being set loose into the general population.

Invariably, that Unwind will try to rebel and, invariably, that Unwind will be taken to the clinic and unwound within just a few days of his or her arrival.

However, this time, what the Happy Jack staff doesn't know is that Connor Lassiter’s reputation has preceded him. The staff’s own announcement that they’ve taken down the Akron AWOL does not deflate the spirits of the Unwinds there. Instead, it takes a boy who was only a rumor and turns him into a legend.

In her mind’s eye she always pictured harvest camps as human cattle stockades: dead-eyed crowds of malnourished kids in small gray cells—a nightmare of dehumanization.

Just as the airplane graveyard was Heaven disguised as Hell, harvest camp is Hell masquerading as Heaven.

There’s one kid Connor speaks to who actually listens and can tell the truth from the fabrications.

The intensity of play can only be matched by an undercurrent of fear that runs beneath every tap of the ball.

He does not see Connor on the volleyball court because the tithes are strictly instructed not to look at the terribles. Why should they? They have been told from birth they are of a different caste and have a higher calling.

No one wants to take on the question. Then the lead singer answers with a nonchalant toss of her hair, like it doesn’t matter.

Connor taps into his own wellspring of fury, and he lets loose a brutal offensive of his own.

Maybe it’s why he stood there and taunted Roland. Because he’d rather be killed with a furious hand than dismembered with cool indifference.

He stands there staring at his hands, lost in the prospect of them. Never before has he been so intrigued by the lines across his palms.

Part of preparation for tithing is a monthlong regimen of mental and physical assessments even before one’s tithing party, so all the hard work is done at home, before they get here.

There are pastors of all faiths in the tithing house—ministers, priests, rabbis, and clerics—because that notion of giving the finest of the flock back to God is a tradition as old as religion itself.

“We are Holy Communion.”
“We are manna from Heaven."
“We are the piece of God in everyone."

They’ve never seen a fallen tithe before, much less one who, like the prodigal son, has renounced his sins and returned to the fold.

They’ve never seen a fallen tithe before, much less one who, like the prodigal son, has renounced his sins and returned to the fold.

The treadmill is state-of-the-art. It has a screen with a programmable vista: You can jog through the woods, or run the New York Marathon.

They play a familiar dance tune, as if to mock the dirge playing inside his head.

“We’ve just inserted catheters into your carotid artery and
 jugular vein,” says the nurse. "Right now your blood is being replaced with a synthetic oxygen-rich solution.”

Suddenly the pompous pastor is there, grabbing Lev by both shoulders.

He finds Blaine in the grassy commons between the dining hall and the dormitories, being put through a regimen of calisthenics with his unit.

How he got here doesn’t matter; all that matters is that Lev will now be unwound. It’s all been for nothing. Connor’s sense of futility makes him feel like a part of himself has already been cut out and taken to market.

The first step is the hardest, but from that moment on he decides that he will neither run nor dawdle. He will neither quiver nor fight. He will take this last walk of his life in steady strides—and in a few weeks from now, someone, somewhere, will hold in their mind the memory that this young man, whoever he was, faced his unwinding with dignity and pride.

It is only when a clapper brings his hands together that the lie reveals itself, abandoning the clapper in that final instant so that he exits this world utterly alone, without so much as a lie to accompany him into oblivion.

Now guards, staffers, and counselors converge on the quad in panic, trying to herd this volatile gathering of kids back to their places, but no one will leave.

His face is a shredded, bloody mess. He’s lost an eye. His right arm is crushed and mangled.

"You've been in a medically induced coma for a little over two weeks,” says the nurse.

Now she rests in a hospital room, trussed up in a contraption that looks more like a torture device than a bed.

She is riddled with steel pins like a human voodoo doll. The pins are held in precise place by rigid scaffolding.

The way Lev sees it, they didn’t know whether to crucify him or mummify him, so they did both. This way, he can’t clap, he can’t fall, he can’t inadvertently detonate himself—and if for some reason he does, the cell is designed to withstand the blast.

It takes a moment for Lev to recognize him—mainly because he’s not wearing his modest pastor’s vestments. He wears jeans and a striped buttondown shirt.

He looks away in shame, curbing his own growing anger, but Lev can tell it’s not anger aimed at him.

“You...you lost your faith?”
“No,” he says, “just my convictions. I still very much believe in God—just not a god who condones human tithing.”

There’s a sprawling ranch in west Texas.

The harsh light of day and the blistering heat assault him as he walks down a ramp to the ground.

Each wears a name tag, but there are no names on those tags. Today, names are unimportant. RIGHT HAND reads the sticker on one young man’s lapel.

Like water vapor crystalizing into the magnificent, unique form of a snowflake, the babble of voices coalesces into a single conversation.

She smiles at them as they go by and continues to play, making it clear that this furnace of a place, full of planes that cannot fly, is more than it seems. It is a womb of redemption for every Unwind, and for all those who fought the Heartland War and lost—which was everybody.