The wood surfaces were harshly lit by a recessed quartz halogen fixture in the ceiling of the box. His arms and legs were immobilized by the duct tape that secured him to the chair, which was in turn bolted to the floor with steel hardware. The box had barely enough ventilation to make breathing possible, if strained. The light, though dimmed, heated up the confined space. From his restrained vantage point he couldn’t see the twoway communication device mounted near his right ear, but he could hear me clearly, even with the filter that flattened out my inflections, turning my speech into a mechanized monotone. “You’re awake,” I said. “Can you see?” “What the fuck is this?” he said, with the nasally insinuation of the man in the trench coat. “Can you see?” “My gut’s on fire. You shot me.” “I shot you with a Taser. Otherwise you’d be dead. Tell me if you can see.” “I can see,” he said. “Your name?” “You don’t know? You’re kidding me.” “I do know.
