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At the top of the ramp, we come to the long corridor that leads
out through the still open steel doors. To our left is a small alcove. Planted
in the center of the far wall is a solid metal door that’s been padlocked.
There’s no window embedded in the door so it’s impossible to make a visual on
the God Boy.
“Anjali,” I say, “we have to blow
the door and do it now.”
“What if he is injured in the
blast?” she says, ever the concerned mother.
“Chance we gotta take,” I say. “But
maybe you can speak to him through the door, warn him of what’s coming.”
Anjali approaches the door, presses
her ear to it, as if listening for a sign of life. The look on her face is both
desperation and joy. The emotions fight one another. On one hand, she is
convinced her son is being held against h
