AN UNPLEASANT SENSATION creeped down Nathan's spine as he made his way towards the train station. It was a brisk walk, the fear keeping his pace alive. He felt as if there were a band of policemen waiting at the other end, ready to imprison him for readying himself to commit an illegal sort of heist. Nothing of what Bella promised seem legitimized. So what was he doing here?

The three hundred thousand dollars, of course.

Nate froze at every corner, getting a feeling of paranoia every time a stranger looked at him for longer than a second or two. He was almost sure there was a huge sign over his head that screamed 'criminal'. His pace quickened, walking so quickly that he nearly tripped over someone's golden retriever. The night he'd enduring a few hours before was terrible. All he could do was lie on his bed, staring at his ceiling and imagining what promise the job would bring. When he'd finally fell asleep he dreamt of a police officer marching him down the street and the look on Seline's face when she'd found out he'd failed her. Nate had woken up at six with a jolt and hadn't returned to sleep since then.

He stopped on the way to his favorite coffee shop right down the street, trying his best to enjoy the light breeze of an incoming summer. Yesterday's storm cleared nicely and the puddles on the ground made a sweet scent of wet pavement, Nate's favorite smell. The doorbell overhead tinged when he entered Crawford Coffee club, making him jump. The barista, a jolly, ivory skinned but old acquaintance of Nate's grinned at him sheepishly. "Rough night?"

"Something like that." He even struggled to control his voice. Hold it together, Nate.

"The usual?"

"Yes. Is there an extra caffeine option?" A weak attempt to joke.

"Unfortunately, no. Fortunately, it also looks like the last thing you need," Jeremiah said with an edge, but nothing past the daily banter. Still, it put Nate in a darker state.

Nathan took his mocha in a takeaway cup and continued his quick and unrelentless walk towards the train station. He was twenty minutes early. People kept glancing at his dishelved

appearance and unnerving stance. He sat aimlessly on a bench behind the railway, the busy chatter of a Tuesday morning buzzing around him. There was a surprising amount of people using the train to get to their jobs, a small queue of men and women lining up at the pay meter. A man cursed in front of Nate as his ticket flew into the mouth of the railway, charcoal and stone eating the small ticket in one go. A surly young lady with a bright pink hairdo blew an obnoxiously big bubble of gum adjacent to him. A young kid with a bright red bandana and dark skin was beating on the drums in an unorganized fashion near the stairs leading to the station, warning pitiful coins in the hat he lay before him. Where was Mr. Michigan? Was he already here?

Nate repeatedly checked his watch. The hand on the clock was frustratingly slow, taking its time as it ticked its way towards nine.

Eight forty five.

Eight fifty.

Eight fifty-five.

The growing anxiousness was beginning to gnaw at his insides. He thought about getting out without making a dramatic exit, or hopping onto one of the train and getting as far away as possible from here. Everyone's head turned as the sound of a train appeared from the far end of the tunnel, an old train tumbling into view. It decelerated seconds later, screeching to a halt in front of several passengers, the smell of rust and oil greeting their noses, smoke filling up the dark space. It was two minutes till nine, and Nathan already felt like he'd waited too long. His eyes watered as he felt the station get denser, the amount of bodies in the area giving him what felt like claustrophobia. He was just about to get up when a middle aged man in a suit plopped himself beside Nate on the bench. Nate looked at him for a good few seconds.

His appearance was indescribable...it felt unnatural to set eyes on him. The strange man's suit was adorned with ridiculous shades of purple and green, a leaf-colored bow tie resting underneath his sharp chin. His shoes were a polished gooseberry tone (do companies even make such shoes?) and from the side Nate could see that his hair was swept to the side was a large amount of product weaved into his light brown curls. He couldn't quite see his face without staring for too long. Most people liked to fit in with their fashion, try to dissolve with the rest of the crowd, but it looked like this man was trying to do just the opposite.

They sat in silence for a couple more seconds as people stepped from the platform and onto the train. Barely anyone turned their gaze towards the strangely dressed man, much to Nate's surprise.

They were too busy, evidently, boarding the train.

"Nathan Beaumont?"

Nate whipped his head back to the strange man who uttered his name. Strange man didn't even spare a glance in his direction. He cleared his throat. "Charles? Charles Michigan?" He dared ask, voice almost inaudible over the loud honk of the train signaling its take off.

Finally the man looked at him, giving the most splendid, unnerving grin. He had so many freckles over his face that Nate could barely register the rest of his features. He looked ten years older than him, but had a gust of bravado written all over his demeanor. Nate was taken aback by his steely, bold eyes. "Most certainly. Follow me."

Without another word Charles stood up, dusted his ridiculous trousers with his lithe hands and walked towards the doors of the train in a brisk fashion. The area surrounding the doors were empty because everyone had already packed themselves in.

Nate just looked at him, jaw nearly hanging to his knees as the man stepped onto the train. He turned around. "Aren't you coming?"

Nate snapped into action and rose to his feet, awkwardly half running and half jogging towards the edge of the railway. The doors began to close. He threw himself through the yawning doors and barely made it before they snapped onto the back of his coat. Heart pounding, he attempted to wrench it out. It gave in at the second try, the train picking up its speed into the darkness of the tunnel. He tried to catch his breath and looked around. Mr. Michigan was nowhere in sight. There was, however, a group of unfriendly passengers staring him down. Nathan shrugged them off and headed right, running his fingers through his wild hair, wondering if he could press on the emergency escape exit button and run as fast he could. This wasn't what he expected when Isabella informed him that Charles would help.

He walked down the aisle, adults with straight faces seated on each side, looking ahead of into the window. Nate nearly collapsed into the seat of an old lady when the train randomly lurched to the side, throwing him off balance. He muttered his apologies and continued his walk of shame to the next aisle. There was no purple and green suit so far.

He tried to gain his bearings back. Why has he decided to do this? The three hundred thousand dollars were a good even excuse, maybe even saving his daughter from homelessness, but he wanted nothing more than to get out of this job offer Isabella got him into. Maybe he could find another way. One that didn't include breaking at least four laws. He exhaled, scanning the entire length of the cabin. He would at least hear the guy out, but like Bella said, it was too late to back out. It seemed like an insane idea to listen to a man like Charles Michigan and follow his rules into an illegal job.

The steady thrum of the rails beneath Nate's feet settled him to continue his search. A sudden burst of light exploded through the windows, nearly blinding him. He adjusted to the new light, feeling the slightest bit warmer, a blur of green and trees passing by behind the glass windows.

"Sir?" A man who worked on the train tapped Nate's back. He was at least a foot shorter than Nate, but built burly. "Please take a seat."

"Yes...I..." A sharp turn of a head from a chair a few meters ahead of him caught his attention. It was just who he had hoped, who'd he dreaded to see. "There's my seat."

He made his way to Charles. The row was empty. He took the empty seat in front of Charles, so they were facing each other. Mr. Michigan's head was stuck in a newspaper. The headline announced something about an incoming global disaster. Probably a false alarm to capture attention. Nate stared at the space between Charles's hairline and the arches of his darkly knitted eyebrows.

Charles didn't look at him. He looked very involved in the newspaper. Nate was about to clear his throat when he finally said, "Why did you accept the job, Nathan?"

He was rather taken aback by the question. Was there a right answer? "I...I...was curious."

The tone behind Charles's voice stirred him. "Curiosity killed the cat, and a cat has nine lives!" Was that mock amusement? "You're clearly an engineer, not a certified liar, Mr. Beaumont. A man chooses to read about a new breed of dog if he is curious, or calls up a call center. But he does not take part in illegal activity. So I ask you again. What made you accept the job?"

Nathan looked down, humiliated. "You know why."

"Ah, but do I? Why don't you say it?"

"It's very desperate."

"And what's wrong with being a little desperate?" This time Charles looked up, and Nate met his gaze. His steely eyes were dancing. "Say it."

Nate was getting a little impatient. His temper was rising. "Why is that so important to you? I didn't come here to discuss the reason I'm doing this, or talk nonsense. I came here for the cash reward, and I know it's fairly obvious to you. You wear a suit, I wear a coat. You have a shiny, expensive watch, and I have plastic. You speak fancy and I don't," he snapped, not even regretting the words that flew out of his mouth.

Charles didn't say anything for a while. After a few long moments he put down the newspaper, taking his sweet time folding it up and placing it neatly on his suit. There came that smile again. "I like you already, Nathan."

Nate clenched his fists, digging half moons into the flesh of his palm. "What do I need to do?"

and thankfully, the ill-mannered man went straight to business this time. He handed Nate the folded newspaper that he had placed on his lap and began speaking as Nate opened the pages. On the large paper was a whole sketch of a large building. He took a wild guess that it was the Crawford Mental Instituation.

"It's quite simple, really. The only challenge is how well you carry this out. You will memorize the structure, the rooms, and the exits. You will walk into the Institution as a registered patient with a serious disease that puts you right next to room 2."
"Room 2?"

"That's where Logan Cobalt is held."

Nate dreaded the answer. "And what is this alleged disease of mine?"

"Schizophrenia." Charles looked dead serious. For once, his eyes stopped sparkling in a mischievous way and he stopped smiling as if he knew something outrageous that no one else did.

"And...and do I need to pretend to have this?"

"Yes and no. Don't act too normal. A schizophrenic has hallucinations, can see things vividly that no one else can, have minds that make up too much. I expect you to do some research. Sound familiar?"

"What?"

"Never mind. The hospital has a schedule. You will not be admitted randomly, of course. A friend of mine, a doctor, will send a false report based on you saying that you, Nathan Beaumont, requires level one treatment at the Crawford professional facilities. You will take a physical exam, go through tests and psychiatric evaluations that will provide you a final criteria with a list of medicines you need."

"How could I possibly go through that without being caught?"

"I have people on the inside."

"That has to be illegal—"

"Isn't this all? Anyway, once you're in, you'll be taken to your room. Everyday at specific timings patients must take medication, depending on the patient and their illness, of course. You will endure these medicines and their side effects. I'll be sure to swap out this medication with harmless antibiotics that will not effect the operation in any way. You'll have to see a psychiatrist assigned to you every two or three days. You need to be honest with him in a way that a schizophrenic would. Tell him what you see. Let him help you.

"You can have visitors on Sundays. Someone will visit you to catch up with you, allow you to broaden your horizons and ask only necessary questions. You may only allow certain people to know that you are in the mental facility. Understood?"

Nate nodded, trying to swallow the bullet in his throat.

"I like words, Nathan. You must understand how imperative it is that you tell absolutely no one. It is imperative."

"Yes. I know. I understand."

"Good. Now the most important timing in your schedule is the public lunch. This only happens three times a week. Remember, you need to let the doctors know that you do not need to be kept in isolation on the daily. That means be a good, well-mannered little schizophrenic. I can't manipulate all the staff, and if they out us, well, you know that that means. In this hour you are allowed to interact with other patients that are well enough to eat outside their cell. And that's where you meet Mr. Cobalt. Now, you can only limit what you tell him about your job. I need you to be opaque. There are three things you need to know about him."

"Great. What's his mental condition again?"

Charles ignored his question. "One: he doesn't like strangers. He's not very social, but don't take it personal. Two: he has severe random mood swings. Again, don't take it personal. Three: now this one's a tip," he said, leaning in. Nate rolled his eyes and neared towards his purple suit.

"If you want to get him to talk, get him cranberry juice. If he's feeling extra quiet, a bagel would do."

"Juice? Bagel?" Nate scoffed, shaking his head. "What are we talking about again?"

"Keep your smart-esque attitude far from this job. You better remember this all, because I'm not repeating none of it."

"How do even know all this stuff?" Nate asked, unable to keep his bewildered tone hidden.

"I have my sources." This time his smile showed all his back teeth. It was unnerving, to say the least. All this time Nate had visions of a criminal in a black suit, or a cloaked man with a cane, or something that screamed hitman or businessman. But instead, he got a wildly dressed maniac with an unusual smile.

"All you can tell Logan is that Nancy sent you."

Nate cast Charles a look that he could hardly summon. "Do you have a secret identity, Michigan?"

Charles returned the look with dead eyes. "Ha ha, Beaumont. No. You may not reveal the cash reward, either."

"Speaking of, when do I get it?"

"When you come to me with a very full Logan Cobalt. In person. It's only fair, you see."

Hair fell into Nate's eyes as he looked down, swiping it back up with a clammy hand. He could't afford to have trust issues, not right now. "I don't understand. I'm not a mastermind. I'm not a planner. I'm not a certified escapist. Now, the three hundred thousand dollar question: how do I escape with him?"

"You are the one to figure it out. At the bottom left corner I gave you all the shift timings of the guards, the number of staff, and all the security cameras we've managed to identify. How you do it, the rest if up to you."

"No. That wasn't what I was told. I was told that I'd have everything given to me..."

"Exclusive of how to do the job, of course. Isn't that what I'm paying you for?" Charles began to look tired. "Is there anything else? Reasonable questions only."

"When do I start?"

"I'll give you a week."

"Why do you need this Logan guy?"

"Reasonable questions only. I'm not answering that."

Aghast, Nate started uttering. "How can I be so sure you're going end up paying me? Or how do I have insurance that this isn't a scheme to hand me over to the police?"

Charles burst out laughing. "If I were going to arrest you, I would have done it the second you accepted this job offer. And as for the money you have my word."

"Your word isn't good enough."

Charles face hardened in a matter of seconds, his jolly exterior vanishing. "Fair play. You do not know me, and I do not know you. But if there is something to know about me, Mr. Beaumont, it's that I do not lie, I do not play games, and I most certainly don't like to waste my time. Which is why I have a contract ready for you."

Nate flinched as a train roared beside him, passing by the tracks adjacent to the one he sat in. He moved his eyes towards the glass window, incapable of keeping up with all the other trains passing by within seconds. Then, it was gone, and Charles Michigan was holding two stacks of papers in his hands clipped by a wooden board. "If you feel the need to, feel free to read through the terms and conditions. It's a standard procedure."

The title of the paper read Michigan Industries (a company in which Nate had never heard of) followed by several rules. He skimmed through them, trying to blink the words away.

"'Michigan industries will not be held responsible for any injuries or death procedures during and after mission?'" Nate read aloud, not believing the words were actually written on paper. "'The industry is also not responsible for any accusations by the police force or charges into prison. The employee will state that they have no connection to Michigan Industries and will deny any statements that claim the employee was ordered into the mission by an industry.' What kind of motive would I have if this weren't for the money?" He asked in disbelief, reading some more outrageous conditions that related to the police and the government. "Are you insane?"

"I prefer the word reasonable, but these are the terms, and if you have a problem with it I can happily give the three thousand dollars to the next guy that comes along," Charles remonstrated with a grim grunt. The seed of doubt that was planted in Nate's head the night before was expanding at an alarming speed, and if it were the size of a walnut a few minutes ago, it was certainly seizing his brain to a point where he couldn't think sensibly. His eyes fell to the last rule, three pages later, right on top of the signature request. It demanded his silence and acceptance of repercussions if he broke the treason of the contract.

Shaking his head, Nate put the pen beside the space that read 'Signature'. He held it there, unable to think properly, panic overwhelming him. He thought he would have a panic attack right there and then. The ballpoint pen bled through the material, leaving a soft hole. The train jolted, and Nate's pen slipped, creating a messy line across the paper. He sighed and signed it properly, hands shaking, internal organs screaming. He then signed his own copy of the paper. Charles leaned over and snatched the papers as soon as he was done, leaving Nathan's version on the clipboard. "Well, as much as I enjoy keeping conversation with you, I don't think there's much left to say. A week from today, June the twenty-fifth, you will head over to Crawford's Mental Institution and sign yourself over them under the advisory name of Nancy. Do you follow?"

"Who's Nancy again?"

Charles had a habit of ignoring questions he preferred not to answer, it seemed. "Don't answer questions with questions. You take your medication like a good boy, and you answer your psychiatrist honestly. You try to get Logan and yourself out. When you escape, you call Isabella and you tell her to call me. We'll find a time and place to meet and you get your money. Of course, Logan needs to be in one piece. Might I also add that your existence will mean nothing to me when you get your money. But I need you remember one thing, Nathan, and that one thing is that Nancy doesn't like snitches." His face seemed to morph into a darker version of himself, a mask hiding the lively emotions he suppressed minutes ago. "And I don't like them either. We've got sources for everything," and as if Nate hadn't heard, he repeated, "everything."

Charles fixed his eyes on a figure behind Nate. A train conductor was going row by row, asking passengers for a ticket. Remembering Nate's quick escape onto the train made his stomach flip. He cast a desperate look towards Charles, who was back to his unordinary happy demeanor. "Don't screw this up, Mr. Beaumont."

"Wait—"

"What?" he challenged, already losing interest in the conversation and turning to the newspaper.

"Why me?"

The conductor was standing by Nate and Charles's, face pressed rigidly. "Tickets?"

Charles handed him a long strip of paper and stood up. The train has paused to a halt, rails screeching outside. "Good luck."

The conductor turned to Nate and he felt ill. "You don't suppose I can pay at this stop?"

· · ─────── ·¤· ─────── · ·

Rain returned abruptly that Monday evening, beating against the window in a flurry of droplets, building up in a matter of seconds. Nate glanced blearily out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of men and women as they rushed under the safety of the rooftops. He was sprawled on top of his desk, sorting out through papers and papers of planning. He'd written to his manager, Rob, that he would be taking some time off next week. The letter was concise but confusing, benign but useless, as Nate had managed to stumble over words in writing. He mentioned that he hadn't known how long he'd be off.

"Are you finished working, daddy?" Seline asked from her position on the carpet, belly down, leaning on her elbows. She was coloring in her favorite PonyValley sketches. "I want to go out in the rain. Diana never lets me."

Nate smiled sadly and shook his head. "Sorry, sweetheart, you could get really sick. And I just need to sort out things for a little while longer, then we can go for hot chocolate. Sound good?"

Seline feigned misery and let out an exaggerated nod, resuming her wild coloring. Nate's heart ached at the thought of leaving her for an unknown amount of time. He could be imprisoned for three years for all he knew, which is why valued his time making plans. "Did you go over the math problems I gave you yesterday?"

Seline frowned. "Kind of...I didn't get it." Nate could hardly blame her. As a homeschooled child with Nate as an unprofessional teacher, it was likely she would hardly get any education nowadays. The easy way to do thing was take her to a school, like all other ordinary kids, but not Seline. She was different.

"Bella..." Nate took a deep breath and approached his daughter from his position on the couch. He sat directly in front of her, cross legged, gathering all her attention. "I'm going to be away for a while."

She dropped her crayon. "Why? When?"

"Its for work," a terrible feeling jerked in his chest, "and it's very important, and I'm leaving in a week. It might be for a while."

Her face fell.

"Please, don't worry, my love. You'll have Isabella. I trust she'll take great care of you," he said quickly, trying to ignore that feeling inside him. "I won't be long."

"You'll come back, right?"

He put a hand on her shoulder, starting to pull her close and reassured her, "Of course. Always. I promise."

She let him hold her, silently leaning against him. Nate wanted to hold her for longer, just a few more seconds, before she starting wriggling away impatiently. "I wanna finish the pony."

"Alright. I'll tell Aunt Bella to put as much PonyValley as she can. I'll try to call you as much as I can," he tried, giving her a weak smile.

But her attention had already shifted back to her coloring.

A fews hours later, Nate had come to the conclusion that there were only a few ways of doing this. There were also too many issues.

The main problem was that all his plans had too many plot holes, meaning that so many things could go wrong. He'd never been to the institution, and he hated hospitals. There was always something about them that made him shudder impulsively. Nate stared back at all his useless scribbles and brainstorming written on pieces of paper and shook his head, scrunching them all up into a ball and tossing them away. He lay out a fresh piece of A4 paper and tried to approach the escape plan in a different way. He had to, as they say, 'think out of the box'.

Nathan stared at the layout of the prison again. It had three levels. The first one was the main reception and an outdoors area for patients who needed fresh air. It also had a gym. The second floor had all the cells and the infamous lunch room. The third floor was briefly labelled as the 'operation and medical area'. It was simple enough that Nate decided he didn't want anything to do with it.

There was also a roof, but Nate couldn't think of any reasonable ways to go from there. A leap of faith? A brave climb down? A wild helicopter pickup?

What if he just walked out the doors? Was that an option? It couldn't be that easy, especially if Michigan had to hire someone to do such a job for him.

Two hours later, Nate had one thing written down on his paper.

And it was unreliable, crazy and stupid. But that was practically the job.

"Seline?"

His daughter looked up, brown eyes curious. "Yeah?"

"What would you do if I told you I went into a mental hospital?"

She looked confused but then grinned as if it were a joke. "I'd say you belong there, silly!"

Nathan laughed.