Life went on like that. He watched me, brought me food—live, fresh food—and I hunted. No one else came but him and food and me. We were alone at the cabin.

He watched me sleep, stalked my dreams, and had food for me in the morning, however, he never stayed. I was alone all day—everyday. Me, food, my axe and the small stream where I drank were the only signs of life in the dense forrest around the cabin. Even other critters besides food were scarce.

There were bugs. Biting, scratching, swarming bugs were everywhere. They flew, crawled, jumped, and inched around trying to bite me. Every bug has a bite.

They bite… they bite… they bite!

* Scratching his head and neck, the Orphan Maker trashes against the chains. They dig into his arms as he claws himself everywhere his fingers can reach, pulling on the handcuffs and bending over to allow his nails to dig into his face. The crowd of journalists and podcasters leans in to record the hysteria. Guards stand dumbfounded while the prisoner’s psychiatrist and nurses rush in. They manage to stop him from scratching, but not before he is bleeding at the wrists, neck and face. Several clumps of his long hair are still in his clenched fists as he sobs. “Do we need to stop again?” The judge asks, raising an eyebrow. A murmur spreads throughout the crowd gathered to watch. Rumors, speculation, accusations, arguments, the noise intensifies until the judge smacks his gavel on his desk once. “Everyone needs to be silent if they want to stay!” Taking the newfound quiet to jot down a few notes, Joe scratches his head and sips on his bland, black hotel coffee. “Fear of bugs?” he writes on a stickey note before turning to a section of his notebook labeled “Nathan Wright” and posting it with the other notes on that page. He then flips to a page book marked as “cabin?” and scribbles until the therapist responds. “I don’t think so, your honor,” the young, slender woman sighs. “We might just need a minute to bandage him and make sure he is coherent… these episodes don’t usually last long. Once Nathan is calm he can return to a conscious state quickly.” Flipping between sections labeled for the psychiatrist, judge, and Nathan Wright, his eyes gloss over the defendants name. There are sparse notes under it, but he adds a few more stickey notes of unverified information to the growing collection and sighs. Just then, a hush falls over the room as Nathan is cleared to continue speaking. *

The bugs were hungry. Hungry bugs bite, they bit me. He said the bugs needed to be fed, so I fed the bugs. They ate a lot.

Feeding me, feeding bugs, it was hard to feed them because the food was small for so many bugs. Fortunately, he knew how to feed them. Rabbits are small; people are bigger.

I got them at night—the people. They were just there, waiting to be food for bugs. Getting them was easy, and they kept the bugs from biting. The people would last weeks: for weeks the bugs would be fed.

Finding more was never a problem—they were easy to find at night. Fifteen suns, that’s how long I would be free from the bugs. Every fifteen suns it would be easy to find more bug food. He helped get bug food every fifteen suns.

First, I found bug food at a park. I hadn’t been to a park since before—with my parents. My parents who lied. I liked the swings.

Swings were fun when my mother pushed me on them. I would go up and come back down; my mother went up and fell down. She didn’t get back up. I found her there under the swing. Father was there too, right behind the swing like he always was.

He showed me mother and father by the swing. All I had to do was take them to the bugs. It was hard, feeding them to the bugs… that first time, but he helped me.

“They betrayed you,” he said. “Now they can help you by feeding the bugs.”

Mother didn’t look like how I remembered her. Her hands were too small, and her head was too big. However, I hadn’t seen mother in since…

I was 5! I was 5! I was 5!

***

Nathan grows hysterical again, screaming incoherently and thrashing against his restraints. Nurses rush in without hesitation and begin to restrain him. He calms quickly, until a spectator in the front row reaches forward with their camera phone.

Smacking at the phone—sending it sprawling across the floor with a shattered screen—Nathan howls at the podcaster. Looking at the crowd like he is just noticing them, the Orphan Maker shouts jibberish and laughs manically. He lunges towards the first row, falling when his restraints prevent him from reaching the shaking podcaster reaching in vain for his phone.

“Don’t provoke him!” the therapist cries, holding her arms out and shooing away the first row of onlookers.

“Everyone out!” the judge roars, turning red as he slams his gavel on his desk hard enough to break it. “This isn’t a circus: put away the phones and get out of my courtroom!”

Furiously taking notes, Joe watches everything from the back of the room expressionless. He keeps his notebook open as he follows the line of journalists exiting the room—letting people cut in front of him at every opportunity. Eyes fixed on Nathan pulling against his restraints and grunting while his therapist tries to get him to stop, Joe is the last one out of the courtroom.

“Joe!” a deep voice booms in the open lobby.

Finishing up a few more notes, the journalist looks up to see his boss scowling and stomping towards him. “What’s wrong, David?” Joe asks before scribbling one last item in his notebook.

“Where is your story?”

“What story?”

David rolls his eyes, “Don’t give me that ‘what story’ crap! Everyone has a story about the Orphan Maker case, except for me. You do remember that everyone could only send one journalist to the hearing—one—Joe!”

“There isn’t enough information to make a comprehensive piece. Those other stories are wild speculation and assumptions,” Joe scoffs.

“Then speculate! I don’t care! This is the only thing people are talking about, and we are the only news outlet without a story about it!”

“Fine, fine…”

“It can be a teaser, but have something on my desk before tomorrow morning or I’m pulling you off this! I mean it, Joe,” David huffs, then takes a deep breath. “We need to stay relevant now so people will pay attention to your amazing comprehensive piece at the end.”

“It’ll be in your inbox before you wake up tomorrow,” Joe assures him, before slamming his notebook closed and walking out of the courthouse.