The Doctrine of Us

"You will go, " his father says. "Both of you."Emre has been saying yes his entire life. Precisely. Without inflection. He is the Father's son-the compound's continuity, its most legible instrument. Beside him stands Rook: the enforcer, trained to move through the world without disturbing it, to bring back what the Body considers its own. Their assignment is clear. Tobias Rhee departed fourteen months ago without filing the correct paperwork.
They are to find him, and return him-or confirm, with the quiet efficiency of long practice, what the compound calls his loss. But the road going east is the first road Emre has ever traveled with no boundary drawn around the other end. And something about the distance-the open window, the billboard that doesn't frighten him the way it should, the silence between him and Rook that has a texture he's been aware of for years and never once assigned a name to-begins to ask questions the doctrine has no category for.
What does an empty apartment mean when it contains a single page about an ordinary Tuesday? What does it mean when the most dangerous thing you encounter is not a hostile contact, not a failed retrieval, but a man who seems genuinely happy-who left and was not destroyed by the leaving? What does it mean when two men built to be tools discover that underneath all the training, all the protocol, all the careful architecture of a life designed to keep them useful, there is something that has been waiting, quietly, to be asked what it wants?Tobias Rhee is not the only one who left without permission.
He is simply the one they were sent to find. The Instrument is a slow-burn queer literary novel about devotion, departure, and two men who were shaped from childhood by a system that needed them legible-and what happens when the road gets long enough that they begin, for the first time, to become unreadable.