Jack spends more time sleeping then he ever has before. Being a 
man of science, but not without an imagination- left as a residue 
from his childhood of books and roleplaying games with his brothers 
on hazy Midwest summer nights, not needed but only sometimes 
unwelcome- Jack dreams more than he ever has before. He dreams 
of his mother and father, of trees that fall in the forest and are never 
heard. Of Star Trek reruns on TV. Cows standing in a circle, tail to 
muzzle, some sort of unholy shrine. Sometimes he dreams that 
Claire is in there with them, in the center, sitting on the ugly rug from 
their living room with her dolls in the middle of the soft prairie grass. 
No getting her there, cowboy- he dreams of rabid animals, too, and 
all to often imagines the heard, all 67 of them, twitching and lurching 
through the grass in a sickly, uneven sort of rhythm, rotating the 
circle ina slow, even, mesmerized pace. Round and round, the 
circle gets smaller, and Jack feels the need, from his spot on the hill, 
to rush in with some kind of paternal duty, but is frozen to the spot. 


Sorry, cowboy. Close but no cigar. 


Jack wakes up, always, in the same hazy, nauseous way he tends 
to do these days, with a guilty weight settled right under his ribcage 
and his vessel aching, breathing shallow. He sits at the kitchen table 
with a restless energy that breeds anger in his chest like some small 
animal gnawing at his sternum and he'll find himself grinding his 
teeth in an old nervous habit. After about an hour of dazed, drunken 


silence, Jack will wander to the garage and continue his illegal 
moonshine activities with shaking hands that make the condenser 
wobble when he touches it; so much work for so little gain. 
Frustration it isn’t faster, but brewing is a slow burn kind of business. 
It pays the bills. 


“You okay, buddy?” Asks the potbellied redneck he usually sells to. 
Two gallons for forty dollars; he pays in cash, as he usually does. 
Jack sits hunched on the garage steps feeling like he’s conducting 
electricity. He’s not one for small talk. “Coming down with 
something?” 


Jack nods, and puts on a weary smile. “Mm. Something like that, 
yeah.” His chest squeezes with irrational rage; he doesn’t want to 
speak, but feels like he has to allude to things being alright, at least 
to some extent. Not like the redneck would call child services 
anyway. He hopes he doesn’t look like he feels, but judging by the 
scruff on his face that he’s been too tired to shave away and the 
weight he’s lost, it’s a stretch. “Probably the weather.” 


“Your brother back yet?” The jugs go in a compartment under the 
redneck’s floor mats, not that the police would care anyway if they 
found it. 


“Nah.” Jack scrambles to find something to say; this has been the 
first human interaction outside of Claire and TJ he’s had in two 
weeks. “Business trip.” 


Business trip. Not entirely false, he reasoned. 
And Mikell does come home. 


Mikell comes home in the rain in mid June. He pulls in late at night 
as Jack sits at the dining room table with his hands around a beer, 
half asleep. He's pale and weary-eyed in the field it will be days before you 
sleep and the holster is around his waist still Powerful, radiant, you are the 
right hand of god and will kill for him: he mumbles a tired and half-hearted 
hello the first time is always the hardest, darling and collapses in bed, and 
Jack pays him no heed other than that he is home. 


Mikell sleeps. He sleeps until the next afternoon. He sleeps with the 


SCP-1003: Tapeworm Child 


Item #: SCP-1003 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: The Foundation currently has 
10 instances of SCP-1003-2 (designated SCP-1003-2-a-k) in its 
possession, all of which are held in separate heavily guarded high- 
security cells at Bio-Research Area 13. All personnel at Bio- 
Research Area 13 are to undergo regular compulsory testing for 
signs of SCP-1003 infection. Personnel wishing to access 
SCP-1003-2-a-k may only do so for the express purpose of 
research, must have Level 4 security clearance, and must have 
written permission from O5- beforehand. They are to wear 
biohazard suits when entering SCP-1003-2-a-k's cells, and go 
through an intensive disinfection process afterwards. No animals of 
the order Carnivora are to be allowed at Bio-Research Area 13 
under any circumstances. 


Description: SCP-1003-1 is an adult tapeworm of the species 
Echinococcus granulosus, known for causing hydatid disease. Like 
others of its species, SCP-1003-1 inhabits the small intestines of 
carnivores (typically canids), where it produces eggs that are passed 
in the host's faeces. The eggs can survive up to _ years in the 
outside environment. 


When the eggs enter the gastrointestinal tract of a human subject 
(hereby designated the intermediate host) via consumption of 
contaminated food, they hatch into larvae, which burrow into the 
host's tissues. It is at this stage that SCP-1003's anomalous 
properties begin to manifest. Instead of developing into cysts, the 
larvae develop into creatures which resemble human embryos 
(hereby designated SCP-1003-2). The vast majority of SCP-1003-2 
specimens die before they have a chance to develop. Those that 
survive are usually those that are embedded in nutrient-rich tissue, 
such as hepatic tissue. As they develop, they absorb nutrients from 


guns loaded next to him, where he can see them reflecting light in a 
sleepy haze. 


It will be a thousand years before you rest; it is the way of this place. 


9 


Mikell has worked at the same ranch since he was 16 years old and 
had been riding a horse as long as he could remember. Jack himself 
could never quite understand what his older brother could possibly 
find entertaining about herding cows on horseback all day, but what 
made up for it was the competitions Mikell did for fun. 


His older brother always got excited about the working cow horse 
runs. Jamie, the owner of the ranch and prime proprietor of Mikell’s 
apparent aptitude for the industry, was always happy to allow he and 
Chestnut to enter and ride in aimless circles in a sandy enclosure 
while fellow hillbillies looked on and cheered. Jack would lean up 
against the metal fencing with John Deere ads strung up along it 
and watch Mikell and his horse kick up sand in tight circles under 
florescent lighting and country music with a smile on his face and an 
odd sort of contentment that comes with seeing your sibling do 
something stupid. Even if Jack was no cowboy himself- preferred 
the likes of Star Trek reruns to baying cattle- he could tell Mikell was 
good by watching how his father swelled with pride, how the judges 
talked about him over the speakers, how Jamie praised him. 


Mikell was good. Mikell was always good at being a ranch hand. 


When Mikell was 16, Jamie taught him delicate art of bull riding, and 
encouraged him to enter in his first rodeo. 


Now Jack had never regarded his older brother’s job and 
subsequent hobbies to be too entertaining, but quickly realized that 
he had a deep, burning passion for watching his older brother get 
thrown off large animals at high speeds in front of a crowd while 
wearing ridiculous clothing, and decided to always be in attendance. 
After all, Jack had never seen a stupider sport than riding a bull for 
eight seconds. 


The only thing was that Mikell was good. 


This was infuriating to Jack, who came with the specific little-brother 
goal of watching the person who he constantly bickered with get 
thrown off something. No, Mikell was good, too good. Jack would 
watch with anticipation in a small sports arena a couple hours away 
from home as his brother grabbed either side of the chute with 
difficulty, fastened his helmet, and awaited the buzzer with hand on 
rope reins, only to hold on for the full eight seconds with frightening 
ease. Rider after rider would be thrown off violently before and after 
him, but no, Mikell never fell, and Jack would bathe once again in 
the burning feeling of inadequacy that came with having an older 
sibling that succeeded in something at all. 


When Mikell was 19, Claire tagged along with Jack and his father for 
the first time to see Mikell ride at a Rodeo. When it was time for him 
to go, Mikell threw one fringe-adorned leg over the side of the chute 
and waited for the handlers to allow him on. This bull had been 
particularly violent, and it was clear that Mikell was nervous, 
watching the previous rider not only get thrown off in the first three 
seconds but get stepped on repeatedly as the animal continued to 
buck. 


The handlers on horses drove the bull back into the chute to the 
crying jeer of the crowd, and Claire tugged on Jack’s pants sharply. 


“What?” Jack had to raise his voice over the clamor of the 
competition, the buzz of excitement and anxiety that made Mikell 
grip the metal chute tighter then he had before. 


“He shouldn't go in.” Claire yelled. “Don’t let him go in!” 
“What?” 


The handlers gave the signal, and he watched his brother climb in 
the tight chute completely, hands on either side, steadying himself, 
locking the dented helmet and mouthguard. The announcer started 
reading off his name and number, to which his father cheered next 
to them. Claire looked at him, eyes wide in panic, then turned 
sharply and put her hands on the fence surrounding the arena. The 
buzzer went off, the timer started, and chute opened, sending Mikell 


and wild animal into the ring. 
But the bull didn’t buck. 


Mikell looked confused at one second on the timer, still holding tight 
to the rope as he had when the bull charged inward. The bull didn’t 
buck. The bull stood, still, in the middle or the arena, despite 
knocking the sides of chute with anger a few moments prior. Two 
seconds. Three seconds. The audience is in shock. The ref looks to 
the announcer. 


At four seconds, the bull starts to move again, and Mikell continues 
to brace for the first impact that never comes. The bull is walking. 
The bull is walking back towards the chute. Mikell looks 
dumbfounded. Five seconds. Six seconds. At this point, even if the 
bull was to start bucking, Jack figures that Mikell could hold on for 
the last two seconds and still make the round, if this even counted. 
The bull finishes walking back to the chute of it’s own accord and 
huffs loudly. 


Seven seconds. The crowd is silent. The bull faces the chute, and 
it’s very clear now that Mikell is expecting to die, to be thrown in the 
air in the most violent buck in the history of all Rodeos. 


When it hits eight seconds, the buzzer goes off. The crowd acts like 
it isn’t over; remains silent, entranced. When the chute opens again, 
the handlers don’t need to do anything; the bull walks in on it’s own 
accord, the chute closes, and Mikell, a little stunned, stumbles off, 
pushes himself back over the side of the chute, and lands on his 
feet, just as blood trickles down Claire’s face from her nose. 


(he would have died had i not changed it) 


Jack thinks of this now. Jack thinks of this as the crickets chirp and 
pierce through his angry haze that clouds his thoughts and mind. 
Jack thinks of this and Claire wanders in and asks if she can sleep 
with him, she had a nightmare. Jack thinks of this as he lies awake 
with her there, thinking of trees falling in the forest and wishing there 
was more he could do. 


10 


Jack will learn, in another life, the importance of not letting one's 
guard down. 


There is be endless safety videos in his future. There is even a 
future ahead of him where he, too, will be an enforcer; he will 
reprimand violations of human imperfection in a place that must by 
all lengths strive to remain industrial, clean, separated. He will learn 
to place a wall between people and things that only look like them. 
He will even learn- long into his future- to control himself, to be 
disciplined, and to fine-tune his sense of situational empathy. He will 
pick his battles and save what may be saved and move on, and 
some will call him heartless, clinical, stubborn, and others will call 
him Director. 


But Jack is a child, and he can not see the consequences of these 
things. He cannot act fast enough. He does not yet have the eye to 
anticipate; to see where incidents happen. He is not dutiful to 

security, containment, protection because he does not need to be. 


And so when TJ runs over and hugs Mikell, Jack does not stop him. 
He does not stop him when Mikell's fingers touch TJ's bare neck. 
And had he known that Mikell was unusually tired because he had 
been treated recently for a still-healing gunshot wound that had shot 
through his shoulder and sent him to a Foundation hospital for two 
weeks, he may have acted differently, although it is not likely; 
carelessness is not an easily avoided trait. 


And when TJ's breath hitches sharply, and he falls into Mikell's arms 
as dead weight, Mikell makes a decision in the sharp, quick way that 
he does, that he will not let his youngest brother suffer. Some would 
consider what he does to be barbaric, and would scream and fight 
with him as he wordlessly loads their 14-year-old sibling into the 
back of the car as Jack does. 


Others would consider it a necessary evil, as Mikell drives away and 
does not return for another several weeks, saying to him, do not let 
them take her, Jack, there's hope for her yet. 


11 


Summer day fades into hot, burning summer day. Jack’s body aches 
in an endless haze. Claire plays outside with the neighboring 
children and he sits at the dining room table and feels cold and 
fuzzy, distant; his thoughts are a single, tired string, fraying, searing 
in the summer heat but cold against his skin. In the mornings, as he 
rouses himself from deep, dreamless sleep, Jack’s body is heavy. 
Claire needs to eat. Jack doesn’t, or feels like he doesn’t. There’s no 
appetite. The heat sickens him in a way he has not experienced 
before. 


On stormy days, the water is hot, comes down in sheets that darken 
the sky, flood down the cracked road into old cement gutters. 
Droplets strike the pavement and Jack stumbles outside for the first 
time in weeks- blinking, body aching and dragging- sitting on the 
damp, sun-bleached porch just as birds chatter nearby. 


The door creaks open- old, rusting springs that his father promised 
he would fix. 


“Jack?” 


Light filters out onto the porch and onto the back of his neck. Jack 
focuses his eyes on the afternoon rain pelting the sparse grass of 
the front lawn. He aimlessly wonders about the date- wasn’t paying 
attention. Days and weeks slip together in a sort of disjointed, hazy 
way. Late June, maybe. Something like that. 


“Jack, can | play with Sydney and Gabby?” Claire hangs to the door 
handle, red raincoat over tiny frame, rubber boots that were handed 
down through three Bright boys before they reached her coming up 
to her knees. Jack looks out wearily past the broken-down porch 
and the patchy front lawn to the girls splashing in mud puddles 
across the street. 


“Mmm-hm, just stay where | can see you.” 


“| will.” 


Jack rubs his eyes as his little sister races across the street, greeted 
by cries of joy. June already- had been a month since graduation. 
He should be thinking about college. 


But he can’t.