Prologue: Prime Target

There's a deliberate rap on the door.

"Police." A badge is flashed at the peephole and she opens slowly. There are two officers there, a man and a woman.

"Has something happened?" Stupid question.

"Your son has witnessed a crime," says the woman gently. Rachel wishes she’d called her husband.
"We're gonna move him somewhere safe. For a bit. At least until we catch the narco."
"Narco?"
"A druggie, a dealer."
"Which son?" Rachel speaks through the knot in her chest that already knows.
"Jacob Abram. But you call him Mikey, he said."

 
The male cop has not spoken yet, but he seems to be trying.
Eventually he rumbles, "He'll be fine."
She thinks about joking: who, the druggie? Instead she says “Can I see him?"

 
"That's not a good idea," the woman chirps.
"Why?"
"Because he'd die."
"Oh."
 
"But you can video call," the man interjects, pulling out a tablet like it's the cure to cancer.
A conversation ensues between the low-ranking cop and someone on the other end, and then Rachel is looking at her son's face.

"Are you okay?" Another stupid question. Her hands are clammy.

 "I'm fine," the fifteen-year-old says, looking somewhere past the camera.
  
"Look at me, precious-"
 
"I was scared but I am calm now."
 
"That's good, Mikey, be safe - "
 
"The police will take care of me."
 
"Okay," says Rachel, relieved. "Love you-"

The feed cuts out; her son has disappeared. Rachel is unsure what to think. On the one hand, Mikey isn't having a meltdown. On the other, he’s in custody.
She notes down the numbers the police officers give her. Forensic psychologist, a child protection officer, a case worker. Scrawls strings of digits at the back of her planner. Thanks the officers. Offers them cake and coffee, because that's what you do. "Please let me know what happens, when he can come home," she says of her son, and walks them out the house.

Her son is seated behind a desk in a bare-walled room. The Man is using his sweater sleeve to wipe a scripted sentence off the whiteboard. One swipe, and I'M FINE has disappeared.

"Now," says the black-haired man with a kindness impossible to fake unless you are a secret agent.
"Now we'll take care of you." He wipes off I WAS SCARED BUT I'M CALM NOW.

"You said if I say those things I go home." Mikey stares at the light switch. Then at the door handle. Then The Man’s trouser pocket. “It wasn’t true because if you don’t then I’m not fine.”

"You can't go home yet.” He smiles reassuringly. Expertly.
“You're kind of confused, not sure whether to trust us, aren't you. Not sure why you're here."

 Mikey rubs his left wrist, which has started to cramp. He has juvenile arthritis and all this stress is causing the beginning of a flare-up.
He takes deep breaths and anchors on details. That’s what you’re supposed to do, but it doesn’t calm him.
The Man is wearing a blue sweater and dark jeans and he doesn't look threatening. But he doesn't look like a policeman either. The other guys, the ones who were here earlier, they said something about a drug-dealer. But they knew his nickname even though Mikey didn't tell them. They know things.

The dark-haired Man is explaining something, but Mikey can't seem to focus.

 
"...trapdoor numbers. The idea is, you can easily multiply two primes, but there's no method to factorising them. Easy to fall in the traphole, hard to get out. Unless you have the key."

  
"What has that got to do with me?" Mikey bursts out.

  
The question has been bothering him since this morning, when he said goodbye to his mean brother Moshe and was bundled into a police van like someone important. Someone other than the freak he is.
The man nods twice. He's been expecting the question.
"We think you may have broken RSA. So that would attract threat actors to you."

  
"RSA?"

  
"You don't know what you did?" The man has thick eyebrows. One of them is raised.

   "Heard the term somewhere. Cryptography?"
  
"Exactly. But maybe this isn't the place for that. Come on."
He stands up, leans close, rolls up Mikey's sleeve. Is this a safe distance? Somewhere in Mikey's brain an alarm, installed by two terms’ worth of life skills coaching, is going off at top volume. But it's too late. There's a needle in his arm and he is lost to the darkness.