ENTER: BARBARA, beside a lonely country road. The sun hangs high in the sky; it’s late in the afternoon. Her hair is lank and matted with sweat. She’s removed her bloodstained sweater-vest and rolled up her sleeves, exposing a pair of pale, hairless arms. Her left wrist bears THE FOUNDATION’s mark, and she rubs at it intermittently, absently. Her gait has devolved into a slow waddle, and as she swallows, throat bobbing, her ears pick up at the sound of an approaching truck. Turning, she sticks her hand out, waving it artlessly in the air, and is rewarded as a truck slows to a halt beside her. The window rolls down.

TRUCKER: What do you want?
BARBARA: Please. I need a ride.

The TRUCKER, a heavyset man in his fifties with a handlebar moustache, squints down at her.

TRUCKER: You pregnant?
BARBARA: Um. Yes.

A vein pulses in her forehead.

BARBARA: Please. I’m running from some bad people.
TRUCKER: Hum. I don’t know.
BARBARA: Please. Your truck is the only vehicle that I’ve seen ever since I started walking, and I’ve been out on this road for hours.
TRUCKER, visibly wavering: Without water?

BARBARA nods. A droplet of blood leaks out of her nose and splashes on the asphalt.

TRUCKER: You’d better come in.

As BARBARA trots over, the TRUCKER cleans out the passenger seat and hauls her into the cab, grunting with the effort. Once she’s secured, he passes her a tissue and watches out of the corner of his eye as she dabs at her nose with one hand and runs her hand through her hair with the other. 

TRUCKER: Need water?
BARBARA: Yes, please.

The TRUCKER hands her a bottle of water and turns the radio back up. BARBARA jerks in surprise; several gobbets of water splash onto her blouse, already half-translucent from sweat.

TRUCKER: Are my tunes that bad?
BARBARA: Oh! Oh, no. It’s just…

Entirely unprompted by BARBARA’s telepathy, a suspicion begins to percolate in the TRUCKER’s mind.

TRUCKER: You live around here?
BARBARA: Oh, uh… I’m not sure. I don’t get out much.
TRUCKER: You from a church? One a’ those complexes out in the desert, like them Mormons?
BARBARA: I…

The TRUCKER catches a glimpse of THE FOUNDATION’s mark on her wrist, pales with fury, and nods knowingly as he wrestles his anger back under control. He pats her on the back, ignoring her flinch, and nods in a vaguely fatherly manner.

TRUCKER: ‘s alright. ‘s alright. You’re safe, now. Play around with my radio, it’s okay.

Timidly, BARBARA reaches out to adjust the dial and gapes as the stations change from country to pop and back again. 

TRUCKER, under his breath: … going t’ have t’ send her to the sheriff. Knew those Quiverfull bastards were trouble.

BARBARA stills her hand just in time to prevent another watery accident. Her heart pounds as she caps the bottle and hands it back to the TRUCKER. She weighs the pros and cons of exercising her powers again.

BARBARA, weakly: I think I should be fine, sir. I don’t need to be brought to any sheriff.
TRUCKER, understandingly: ‘s alright. ‘s alright. You can stay at mine for the time being if need be. Whenever you’re ready. All of my kids have moved out, anyway. My old lady will be happy to have another daughter to spoil, if only for a while.
BARBARA: Thank you.
TRUCKER: Don’t worry about it.

Out of the corner of his eye, the TRUCKER watches BARBARA as she adjusts her spectacles. His gaze drops from her delicate features to the curve of her neck, and lower, lower, to the heavy jut of her breasts from where they are filling out her lacy blouse.

TRUCKER: You really aren’t dressed for this weather, are you?
BARBARA, chuckling awkwardly: I guess not, no.
TRUCKER: Must’ve been a spur-of-the-moment thing, eh? To have you leave so sudden. How far along are you?
BARBARA: Oh, I don’t know.
TRUCKER: You look like you’re ready to pop. My old lady, we’ve got three kids, and she never got as big as you.

BARBARA laughs awkwardly. The TRUCKER returns his gaze to the road with difficulty.

TRUCKER: You’re lucky. I’m almost at the end of my drive. Else you’d be stuck with me for the next couple a’ days.

He laughs. BARBARA laughs along with him, haltingly. 

TRUCKER: Just going t’ dump my rig at the truck stop and get me some grub, and then we’ll be right back. Need t’ call my old lady and let her know…

He digs out his phone. BARBARA watches as he dials.

CUT TO: A lonesome spot by the side of a lonely country road. A pair of leather shoes comes to a leisurely halt. The man to whom these leather shoes belong drops to one knee and squints at the dirt. There is a speck of blood upon the asphalt.

DUMA, under his breath: Eureka.

CUT TO: BARBARA, standing in a dimly-lit bathroom. It’s homely, with a faded Mickey Mouse mat on the floor and an array of feminine products sitting in a metallic tray bolted to the wall just beside the bathtub. She is wiping her hair as she stares at herself in the mirror. As her fingers twitch, the toothbrushes arranged by the side of the sink lift into the air, moving on invisible strings, and begin to perform little tricks. When her hair is finally dry, she wanders out of her bathroom. There’s a disparate set of clothing arranged on the bed. Carefully, BARBARA dresses herself, draping her body in a loose maternity smock that falls to mid-thigh, and wanders downstairs, slipping her spectacles back on.

PATRICIA: Oh, would you look at that! It fits you.

PATRICIA is a matronly-looking woman in her fifties. HAROLD, her husband, stands up from where he’d been sitting in front of the TV and plants his fists on his hips as PATRICIA looks BARBARA up and down.

HAROLD: She’s taller than you were.
PATRICIA: Bigger, too. Still, it looks wonderful on you. I’ll lend you some leggings, so things are less draughty down there.
BARBARA: Thank you.

The three of them proceed to the dining table. PATRICIA has laid out a spread, including but not limited to mashed potatoes, steak, shepherd’s pie, and some kind of chicken that BARBARA hasn’t seen before. It looks heavenly.

PATRICIA: Please, dig in!
HAROLD: Don’t mind if I do.
BARBARA: Thank you.

As they eat, HAROLD tells PATRICIA about his time on the road. BARBARA listens, laughing along when appropriate. She’s starting to warm up to them. As HAROLD segues into another story, BARBARA glances at a family photo in her field of vision. It’s HAROLD and PATRICIA, albeit somewhat younger. They’re with three teenagers: two boys, one girl. Their children. BARBARA’s been told that they’re all off in the big city or at college.

PATRICIA: Seconds?

BARBARA looks down at her plate. It’s empty.

BARBARA: Oh, I think… I think I’m full, actually.
PATRICIA: Nonsense. You’re skin and bones! Let me get you another plate.
HAROLD: Don’t worry about it. By the way, what’s your name? You never told us.

BARBARA thinks.

BARBARA: … Bridget.
HAROLD: Bridget. Yes, don’t worry about it, Bridget. Tomorrow, we’ll head down to the police station, and you can tell Sheriff McKinsey everything that’s happened to you at that bloody compound.
PATRICIA: Harold, language.
HAROLD: What? I’m being as nice as I can possibly be.

BARBARA smiles awkwardly.

>You need to leave.
<I know.>

CUT TO: BARBARA, upstairs. PATRICIA has finished fussing over her bed, and is turning to her.

PATRICIA: There you go, dear. Sleep tight, okay?
BARBARA: Thank you. I will.

PATRICIA smiles at her one last time before shutting the door behind her. BARBARA sits on the bed, still draped in her smock, and sinks her fingers into the mattress beneath her. She removes her spectacles, lies down on the bed, and stares at the ceiling.

<I’ll leave when they’ve fallen asleep.>

CUT TO: BARBARA, asleep. Her chest rises and falls evenly as she slumbers. Her breathing slows, then stops entirely. When her eyes next open, they are entirely black. Nimbly, she sits up in bed and floats over to the door, which opens without her touching it. The house is dark and quiet. BARBARA levitates over the floorboards and into HAROLD and PATRICIA’s room, where the old couple is sleeping. BARBARA reaches out, her fingers sinking into HAROLD and PATRICIA’s skulls without resistance, and BOB begins to sift through their memories.
As BOB riffles through their lives, a nearby drawer unlocks, disbursing a stream of banknotes into the air. As the old couple slumbers, BOB excises these items from their memories; their absence will not come as a shock. When BOB is done, BARBARA removes her fingers from their skulls and withdraws silently, her spectacles settling onto her nose.
Down the stairs she goes, then out the door and onto the porch. BARBARA’s boots remain where she left them, caked with dirt and dust; a pair of pilfered socks wriggle onto her bare feet, and the laces of her boots slip into place without issue. There is a man standing on the lawn.

DUMA: Barbara?
BOB, quietly: Not quite.

DUMA drops to one knee, bowing his head. BARBARA turns to face him, her face blank. BOB’s voice is softer, but has lost none of its otherworldliness. As though in response to the sound, a dog begins to bark in the distance.

DUMA: Great One.
BOB: I remember you. One of their hunters. Have you come to hunt me?
DUMA: No, Great One. I have been sent to request that you return to our humble auspices. It is our fear that your vessel has misled you.
BOB: I am having a wonderful time.

DUMA looks up.

BOB: Your plane has such fascinating concepts. Trinkets, really. Numbers and obsessions and infatuations. Certainties and uncertainties. A tortured sprawl of meat tormenting itself endlessly. Wretched things playing at ascension.
DUMA: Great One…
BOB: Follow me if you wish. I am not sure if this frightened, naïve little vessel of mine knows what cameras are, but I do not foresee any impediments to your tracking of her. For all your grovelling, I am much less unpredictable than her. But tell that whelp you call a Headmaster that I do as I please.

DUMA lowers his head again.

BOB: And as a gesture of my munificence, nephew, I will grant you a glimpse into your longed-for home.

Between one breath and the next, BARBARA disappears from the porch and appears right in front of DUMA, her finger coming to rest upon his forehead. DUMA topples backwards, black eyes wide and staring, and BOB laughs. It is deep and treacly; his breath smells of rotting meat.

BOB: Sweet dreams.

Still chuckling, BARBARA turns and floats off down the street. DUMA writhes on the lawn for a few more minutes before regaining consciousness with a sharp inhalation and picking himself back up, forehead wet with cold sweat.

CUT TO: BARBARA, jerking awake on a bare mattress. She looks around, heart jackhammering in her chest.

<Bob? Please tell me you didn’t…>
>You fell asleep. I did what had to be done.
<You killed them?>
>No. I took what you required and left.

BARBARA stands up, her knees wobbly. The air has an earthy, herbal smell. She’s wearing her mud-caked boots; a pair of leggings protects her modesty in view of her too-small smock. BARBARA pats her thighs, thinking of PATRICIA. Her chin wobbles, and she swipes perfunctorily at her eyes.

<Where am I?>
>Nowhere in particular.

BARBARA is in a motel. The curtains are drawn. She peeks out the window at the street and sees a highway and a parking lot, half-empty.

<Did you… are there any dead animals in the bathtub?>
>I found a drifter. Male. Purposeless.
<What did you do? Did anyone see you?>
>Discretion is a fascinating concept.
<What?>
>No one saw me.

BARBARA turns in a slow circle, wringing her hands, looking for any telltale bloodstains.

>Fun. It was fun. Thank you for teaching me the term, Barbara.
<What did you do?>
>This drifter… he had no purpose in life. Little more than an animal chasing its next high. I gave him a purpose. I gave him a cause. An altar.

BARBARA, whispering: What did you do?

>If you truly wish to know, go into the bathroom.

BARBARA swallows and looks at the bathroom. The door is closed.

<Does anyone know… I mean, I booked this room, didn’t I? You used my body to book this room. My likeness. Someone will figure it out.>
>Do you doubt my ability to stymie any attempts to take you into custody?
<No, it’s just…>
>You owe your freedom to me.

BARBARA swallows.

>Go down and check out, Barbara. I will walk you through the process. After that, you are free to go where you please.