T H E BOYS

IN THE
BU N K HOUSE
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S A LVA T I O N
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DA N BA R RY
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HARPER

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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Atalissa, Iowa
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| ON E |

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 LAT E E V E N I N G , I N T H E S M A L L Iowa city of Muscatine. In a rus-
tic hilltop house with a view of the Mississippi River through
winter-stripped trees. A social worker, exhausted from another
day on the front lines of the human condition, finding comfort
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in domestic routine. Dinner. Cleanup. Bedtime. Wake up and

do it all over again.
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Her husband was out working the night shift as a ware-

house supervisor. Her eight-year-old stepson, exhausted from
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his second-g rade grind, was already asleep. The familys Ger-
man shepherd was spent after putting in a full day as a beloved
pain in the ass. But her one-year-old daughter was protesting
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the tyranny of bedtime with another act of civil disobedience.

Just another night. And here was this bone-weary mother,
Natalie Neel-McGlaughlin, thirty-one, tall, with unruly blond
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hair wrangled into a ponytail, coaxing her baby to sleep as the

cedar slats of her A-frame kept the cold night at bay, when her
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cell phone rang.

The numbered exchange glowing with urgency signaled a
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work-related call. Not that unexpected, since Neel-McGlaughlin

was a social worker III with the Iowa Department of Human
Services, and tonight was her turn to field after-hours calls for the
Muscatine County office. Although eight years in the profession
hadnt exactly hardened her, shed lost the ability to be surprised
by what p eople do to one another. Some of her cases sprung
from carelessness: the accidental rollover in bed that smothers
a baby. Others were rooted in something more unnerving: the
children who show up at a Davenport hospital, sickened by the
poison fed to them by their mother.

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 12/ D A N B A R R Y

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What now?
The disconnected phrases tumbling from her cell phone all

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but dared her to determine the context and solve the word

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puzzle.
A couple dozen disabled men. All from Texas. Living in an old

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boarded-up schoolhouse out in Atalissa. For decades. Eviscerating tur-
keys in a meat-processing plant. For decades. Financially exploited.
For decades.

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What she thought was: Cant be. This is frigging 2009!

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What she said was: Could you please repeat that?
Men with physical and mental disabilities, living in an old school-

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house, eviscerating turkeys for very little money, for decades. Exploited.
She thanked the caller, because that is what you do, and tele-
phoned her supervisor, who agreed that the bizarre tip warranted
follow-up. She then arranged for a couple of law enforcement of-
ficials to follow her in the morning to this place called Atalissa,
known to her only by a green exit sign along Interstate 80.

TH E M O R N I N G F O L L OW E D I T S F L OW.
Natalie Neel-McGlaughlin chose an outfit to balance the need
to look professional, given her law enforcement escort, with prac-
ticality, given her destination. Khaki pants and a denim jacket
would do. She closed the bedroom door so as not to disturb her
sleeping husband, just back from work. Got her dark-haired step-
son fed and down to the bus stop. Strapped her curly-blond baby
into the back of the burgundy Geo Prizm, a rolling office-cum-
playpen, cluttered with smashed Cheerios and stubbed Marlboro
Menthol Lights, child toys and work papers. There were twelve
years and 160,000 miles on it, but she preferred her Prizm to the
state-issue sedans. Shed rather not show up at someones house in
a car bearing the Iowa Department of Human Services emblem
on its side. The difficulties of life are daunting enough without
announcing them to the neighbors.

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