So I hop off the stone column and lead my family to the Art Hut.

There, I sit on a bench and study the black bears.

And I chuckle, cured of the reverence plaguing my soul. These creatures look so pathetic, stuffed in gla.s.s boxes like the contortionist I once marveled at in my youth. But unlike the performer, these creatures inspire only pity, victims of their own weakness.

Sure, beasts like these posses a certain raw strength, but their power can't compare to that of a human being. Of an American.

Therefore, these bears will live the rest of their wretched lives in these boxes, with tubes jammed in their orifices and flesh.

I laugh again.

Then my son cries.

And I notice a young couple. Pointing, smiling.

"What's wrong with you?" I say, holding my son's shoulders.

"They want to go home," he says.

"Who?"

"The teddies. Can't we let them go with their mommies?"

"Stop crying."

And after I touch my belt, my son obeys.

"Maybe I should take him outside," my wife says.

"No," I say. "He needs to see this."

An older man in a suit steps closer to me. "It's refreshing to see a father taking an interest in his son's artistic development. You'd be surprised what a rarity that is these days."

"You're right. I am surprised."

The old man grins. "I'm John Miller, the curator."

"Samson Carter."

We shake hands.

And after a few minutes of talking about black bears, we shake hands again.

"See you tomorrow night, Mr. Carter," the curator says. "a.s.suming you and the missus are planning on attending the show."

"Show?" I say.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard. All of Kingdom Come's buzzing about tomorrow's guest. He's supposedly quite the comedian."

"I doubt we'll be in attendance. I'm not a comedy fan."

"Well, to each his own."

Outside the hut, my son approaches one of the glowing rhododendrons, and I have to grab him by the arm.

"Don't touch those," I say. "Don't even get near them."

"Why?" my son says.

"Because I told you not to."

And that's the end of that.

One good thing about my son, he knows when to shut up.

Thankfully, my Filter's sophisticated enough to differentiate between the day-to-day screaming in Kingdom Come and the yelling of my wife. So the machine lets me hear her, and I wake up.

And I find her on her knees, a few meters from the tent.

"What's wrong?" I say.

"It took our son," my wife says. "It took our son."

I glance around. I don't see him. "Who took him?"

"A monster." She cries.

I feel like shaking the truth out of her, but there's no time for that. "Which way did they go?"

"I don't know. It pushed me into a bush, and when I got up, they were gone."

By now, a small group has formed around us, and a middle-aged woman steps forward. "I seen what happened. They went that way." She points.

"Call the Guardians," I say, and look down at my wife. "Don't tell them what you think you saw. They'll lock you up."

"Your wife ain't tetched," the middle-aged woman says. "I seen the creature too."

But I trust this hick even less than my wife.

"Tell them you can't remember," I say to my wife.

She nods.

And I run.

A few times, I stumble on steps and the roots bulging from the earth, and I remember the veins that swelled on my mother's forehead whenever she exercised or threw my father's porcelain horses at the wall. She limited herself to only destroying a couple every few weeks, because she wanted them to last.

Eventually, I end up catching my breath beside what looks like a fallen petrified tree. But no, I read about this in the brochure. Log Rock's a natural sandstone bridge, and my Filter's supposed to edit out all the vandalism, the names and messages scratched and spray painted into the stone.

For a few moments, however, I see enormous letters that run almost the entire length of the bridge.

THE MONSTER IS INSIDE.

And I hear a chorus of screams.

Then, silence.

I follow the escort into the Coal Mining Museum and Guardian Headquarters, up the stairs, to a large office on the fourth floor.

Standing in front of Warden Rose is almost like looking in a mirror. The same buzz cut. The same color suit. And if you squinted, you might mistake one tie for the other.

While the escort whispers into the warden's ear, I let my eyes explore the photographs on the wall. Photographs that the warden obviously acquired from the exhibits, because the pictures impart a b.l.o.o.d.y history of the coal industry. Mining accidents, burning houses, dead families. I also see some newer photos of the reconstruction, when the mines were transformed into the jail it is today.

Warden Rose shakes my hand, smiles. "Do you always bring suits along on your camping trips, Mr. Carter?"

"Yes," I say.

He sits, and motions for me to do the same.

I obey.

Then he leans forward, frowning. "I want you to know, we're making every effort to find your son. We already tracked down his Filter, but I'm afraid the device wasn't attached to his head."

My head vibrates with a shiver. "Would such a removal cause him any permanent damage?"

"That depends on our enemy's knowledge of Filters and the tools at his disposal. For now, let's a.s.sume your son is alive and well."

I nod. "Do you have any leads?"

"Yes. But I didn't call you here to brief you on the investigation. Your desire to a.s.sist in this case is understandable. However, you aren't qualified-"

"I fought in the war, Warden Rose. I'm more than capable of-"

"With all due respect, Mr. Carter, your attempts to help would only reduce your son's chances of survival. I read your file, and I know you're a man of myriad abilities. But this is a matter of harmony. If I allowed you to enter our system, we could no longer synchronize and achieve perfection. I hope you understand, I'm not trying to insult you. I only want to save your son."

I still feel angry, but I also feel more respect for this man and his organization. "I understand."

"Good. Now." The warden taps a b.u.t.ton on his desk, and a monitor lowers from the ceiling. "As you must know, there are security cameras in place throughout Kingdom Come. One such camera captured the initial moments of the kidnapping." He presses another moment.

And I see a monster with black matted fur and metallic fangs. It pushes my wife's chest. s.n.a.t.c.hes up my son. Runs.

Then the warden turns off the monitor. "I don't blame you for not believing your wife. Like me, you're a man who refuses to accept outlandish stories without empirical data."

A hint of guilt tingles in my gut, but the feeling's soon overpowered by rage. I told my wife not to talk about the monster, and she did so anyway.

"But now you've seen the truth," the warden says. "Now you can give your wife the validation she needs. Don't tell her about the recording. Just tell her you believe her. And convince her that what she saw was a man in a suit. I'm sure she'll see reason, if it's coming from you."

I nod.

"One more bit of advice," Warden Rose says. "Take your wife to the show tonight. I hear our guest is a genius in his field."

"I'm not in the mood for comedy," I say.

"That's exactly why you should attend. Laughter is the best medicine, Mr. Carter. At least promise me that you'll consider the matter further."

"Alright."

"Good." The Warden stands, and I do the same. "I'll contact you as soon as I find your son."

"Thank you."

We shake hands.

And halfway to the door, I turn around. I almost forgot. "My Filter's been malfunctioning ever since my son was taken."

The Warden sits. "How so?"

"The audio and visual editor shut off once, for a few seconds. And my dialectal translator doesn't seem to be working at all anymore."

Warden Rose rubs his eyes. "I apologize for the inconvenience. To be honest, the Filters have a h.e.l.l of a time coping with the effects of heartbreak. Still, this is no excuse. My Guardians a.s.sured me they'd stomped all the bugs in this new model, and they're going to suffer for their failure, I a.s.sure you. I'll send a technician to your tent tonight, and he'll fix your Filter while you sleep."

"Thank you," I say.

And all the way back to my tent, I search myself for the heartbreak Warden Rose spoke of.

Sure, I find annoyance, outrage.

But I don't feel any sorrow.

In fact, I can't even picture my son's face.

The Guardian tries to stand, fails.

So I help him to his feet. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he says. "It ate my gun, knocked me unconscious. I'm sorry."

I check the tent.

Empty.

And still, I don't feel anything but anger.

Anger at the monster, of course.

Anger at this pathetic excuse for a Guardian.

And more than that, anger at myself. Because what kind of man doesn't protect his own family?