The Island of Misfit People

See you there. Dr. Adrian Whitmore snorted and rolled his eyes. “What a load of shit.” He lowered the invitation and glanced through the windshield of his deep-red Aston Martin. The traffic light ahead was still red, giving him another few seconds to inspect the ridiculous thing someone had tucked beneath his windshield wiper. That irritated him more than the invitation itself. The physician parking lot was gated. Employees needed badge access to enter, and security cameras covered nearly every corner. Patients weren't supposed to be wandering between the cars, and Adrian paid far too much for his Aston Martin to appreciate strangers touching it. Especially strangers who left trash behind. He'd nearly tossed the envelope into the nearest garbage can without opening it. Then he'd seen his name. DR. ADRIAN WHITMORE The lettering was elegant and precise, pressed into the heavy black envelope in shimmering gold. There was no stamp. No return address. No company logo. Nothing to explain where it had come from. Only his name and a wax seal embossed with a tiny circus tent. Adrian had broken it with his thumb. The invitation inside was even more elaborate. Heavy black cardstock. Embossed gold edges. A faded red-and-white circus tent stretched across the top, its pointed peaks rising beneath an illustrated night sky. Beneath it, pressed into the paper in shimmering gold: YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN. And in smaller letters: Everyone belongs somewhere. Some people belong here. Adrian gave a quiet laugh. Some marketing firm had certainly committed to the bit. He'd attended enough hospital fundraisers and charity events to know wealthy people became strangely excited when someone added a theme. Masquerades. Murder mysteries. Casino nights. Once, the hospital foundation had transformed an entire ballroom into an enchanted forest and charged fifteen hundred dollars a plate to eat mediocre steak beneath plastic trees. A carnival wasn't particularly imaginative. His eyes continued down the page. For seven nights, leave behind the world that has rejected you. Adrian's eyebrow rose. “Rejected me?” His gaze drifted around the black leather interior of the Aston Martin. He smiled. “That'll be the day.” The car had been a gift to himself after being named Chief of Surgery. Completely unnecessary. Obnoxiously expensive. Painted such a deep red that it appeared nearly black in shadow, revealing its true color only when light rolled across its body. Adrian loved it. He'd earned it. Years of medical school. Residency. Missed holidays. Sleepless nights. Emergency calls. Administrators. Families demanding answers. Patients expecting miracles. Everyone always wanted something from Dr. Adrian Whitmore. Tonight would be different. Tonight they were giving something back. He glanced at the dashboard. 6:42 P.M. Plenty of time. The hospital foundation gala began at eight, and his tuxedo was already waiting at home. Adrian looked back at the invitation. Come where judgment cannot reach. His smile weakened. The next line read: Come where every secret is already known. For several seconds, Adrian didn't move. A horn blasted behind him. His head jerked up. The light had turned green. “Jesus Christ.” Another horn sounded. Adrian accelerated through the intersection. “Go around me, asshole.” He tossed the invitation onto the passenger seat. Marketing. That was all. Some ridiculous immersive campaign designed to make people uncomfortable enough to become curious. He'd give them credit. It was working. At the next light, Adrian picked it up again. Three lines remained at the bottom. Your place has been reserved. Attendance is expected. See you there. Adrian snorted and rolled his eyes. “What a load of shit.” He started to fold the invitation. The thick edge sliced across his index finger. “Fuck.” Adrian jerked his hand away. A thin red line appeared across the pad of his finger, followed by a bright bead of blood. “Perfect.” He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it without thinking. A second drop had already formed. Before he could catch it, it fell. The blood landed directly across the final words. See you there. Adrian frowned. The drop didn't spread. It didn't soak into the cardstock. It sat perfectly round against the black paper. Then it disappeared. Adrian slowly lowered his finger from his mouth. “What the hell?” Click. The sound came from the invitation. Adrian stared. The gold lettering flashed. Red. Then blue. Then green. A blue flame erupted from one corner. Green fire raced along the opposite edge. Then red flames tore straight through the center. “Jesus—” Adrian dropped it. The invitation landed on the passenger-side floor engulfed in fire. He reached toward it, stopped himself, then grabbed for the door handle instead. The carpet should have caught fire. It didn't. There was no smoke. No heat. No smell of burning paper. The invitation didn't even curl. Blue twisted around green. Green disappeared beneath red. The colors crawled across the black cardstock until the entire invitation vanished beneath them. Then the flames disappeared. So did the invitation. Adrian stared at the empty floor. No ash. No scorch mark. Nothing. His heart beat harder against his ribs. Then a voice whispered from somewhere inside the Aston Martin. “See you there.” Adrian's head snapped toward the passenger seat. Empty. He checked the rearview mirror. Nothing. “What the f**k?” Three faint notes answered him. Da... da... da... Carnival music. Thin and distant. Almost cheerful. Adrian reached for the volume knob. The stereo was off. The music continued. Slowly, the melody began to distort. Each note dragged longer than the one before it until the childish tune twisted into something shrill and ugly, like fingernails being pulled slowly down a chalkboard. Adrian opened the car door. The music stopped. Immediately. He remained half seated behind the wheel, one foot planted against the pavement. Traffic passed. Someone laughed on the sidewalk. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Normal. Everything was completely normal. Adrian looked at the empty passenger floor. Then at his finger. The paper cut remained. He ran his tongue across it once more. There had to be an explanation. Flash paper. Some chemical reaction. A hidden speaker. Technology could do damn near anything now. And he knew exactly which assholes would think something like this was funny. “Bennett.” A nervous laugh escaped him. Dr. Bennett had been giving him s**t about tonight's gala for weeks. Or maybe Shah. Either one of them could have gotten into the physician parking lot. They knew his car. They knew his schedule. They knew exactly how much he hated being f****d with. Adrian shook his head. “Very funny.” He pulled the door closed. By the time he reached his neighborhood, his heartbeat had returned to normal. By the time the Aston Martin rolled into his driveway, irritation had replaced whatever brief flicker of fear he'd felt. He checked the time. 7:04 P.M. “Shit.” He needed a shower.