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The pain of having a third finger amputated caused Lee to convulse. Having his middle finger severed struck him like a bolt of lightning, as though an explosion had gone off in that instant, blinding him for a second. The pain seemed unbearable, as though there were no more he could endure, and yet each time he lost a finger the pain surged higher again. Eun-Yong knew what he was doing, he seemed to understand how each cut increased the agony Lee was suffering.

Lee’s head whipped back. He was shaking involuntarily, struggling for breath. Urine ran from his bladder, pooling on the seat of the chair and running down the back of his legs. His world shrank. His eyes focused on the stumps on his right hand, staring at the blood flowing from the wounds. He was in shock, swept up in disbelief, but the pain was very real. He pursed his lips, hyperventilating as he fought to control the pain, but it was overwhelming.

The soldier pinning his arm to the chair pressed a dirty cloth hard against the bloody stumps. Lee could see two of his three severed fingers lying on the bloodstained floor before him, the third lay out of sight. He could barely breathe. His eyes were wide with fear, watching as the soldier in front of him positioned the bolt cutter over his index finger.

He fought, trying to wiggle free, but the soldier beside him held him forcibly in place. Again, Lee felt the steel biting into his finger, already the pressure was building.

“No,” he whimpered, helpless, the anticipation of pain already shooting through his arm.

Eun-Yong composed himself, speaking in an even tone. “You don’t need to go through this. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know anything,” Lee pleaded, sobbing. “Please, I don’t know.”

“Three down,” Eun-Yong said coldly. “There are seventeen more. Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell me about him? Why did you come for him?”

“For him?” Lee cried, finally understanding. In that moment, he froze, his mind reeling from all that had happened, from the realization they were after the girl from the stars. He had to tell them. He couldn’t put up a facade. He hated himself for betraying her, but he knew nothing of this child.

“Not him,” he said. “Her. We were sent to rescue a girl.”

The soldier with the bolt cutters flexed as the soldier looked to Eun-Yong for the signal, but the colonel raised his hand.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Lee shook his head. He couldn’t reply. His mouth was dry. Words failed him.

Eun-Yong raised his hand, flicking his fingers. He gestured toward a soldier standing behind Lee. “Bring in the American child.”

A young boy was thrust in front of Lee as the soldier beside him applied pressure to his wounded hand. The boy looked Korean. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. His long hair was matted and unkempt. He was wearing an oversized Nike T-shirt that looked like a dress on his small frame.

Lee stared at the boy with disbelief as the soldier before him with the bolt cutters held steady pressure on his index finger, cutting into the skin.

Blood dripped from his mutilated hand.

The child should have been horrified, but it was almost as though the young boy expected this, as if he had anticipated what was happening before he was dragged into the room. Perhaps he’d heard the screams. His head tilted to one side as he took a good look at Lee’s trembling hand still held forcibly in place by a kneeling soldier. Lee’s index finger was poised between a pair of bolt cutters. The boy seemed strangely detached, as though he were carefully examining the dynamics of the situation. There was no pity in his eyes, just acceptance.

“This dog knows nothing!” Eun-Yong cried. “He is no better than the others.”

The soldier with the bolt cutter eased the tension on his index finger.

“Take him away,” the colonel ordered.

The soldiers released the straps around Lee’s arms and legs, pushing a bloodied rag into his left hand so he could tend to his wound. Still fighting the pain, Lee pushed the rag hard up against the three stumps on his right hand, trying to stop the bleeding. He felt weak, drained of any strength.

As the soldiers dragged him from the interrogation room his eyes locked with those of the child.

“I remember you,” the child said, speaking in American English. “I remember how you died.”

Lee was stunned. Up until that point, the torture had been conducted in Korean. The soft, docile tones of English being spoken by a child sent a chill down his spine, leaving him speechless. To have this child speak of his death in the past tense terrified him.

Blood dripped from the rag he held over his hand. It hurt to apply pressure to his wounds, but he had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain, watching as the soldiers led the child away, laughing among themselves.