[The Facility—Somewhere Quiet]
The room was clean, too clean.
White walls, white curtains, white bedspread stretched so tight it looked unused.
A single window let in muted daylight filtered through reinforced glass, blurring the world outside into something distant and unreachable.
Ronald Reid sat on the edge of the bed.
At first glance, he looked composed.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his posture still carried the rigid discipline of the Reid men.
His hair was darker than Benjamin's had ever been, streaked with silver at the temples, neatly combed back. His face bore the same sharp structure, the same deep-set eyes, the same severe mouth, just older, heavier, as though time had pressed down on him instead of moving past.
In his hands was a photograph. It was old and faded at the edges.
In the picture, Margaret stood at the center, younger but unmistakable, Arthur beside her, proud and solid, a much younger Benjamin stood stiffly at Arthur's side and Ronald.
