A novel I'm working on title still undecided

I'm staring at a young boy. He looks exactly like I did when I was his age. He's laying
atop a wooden work bench, hands and legs bound together behind him. The look on his
face is one of terror, shock, and sorrow. But it also carries with it a sort of quiet acceptance.
Beyond the boy, the scorpion man moves in the shadows, rummaging, trying desperately to find something
specific. His frustrations coming through in the form of inaudible mumbles, followed by an object
flying across the shed. Although unable to see his face, I can clearly make out the clenched teeth and
pursed lips with every syllable. This continues until I hear a soft, breathy, "Yes." He found
what he was looking for.

The scorpion man walks to the side of the table nearest to him and stands tall over the boy. The
young child refuses to look, however. It isn't entirely out of terror, either. The boy's face now carries on it
defiance, as well as terror. The man begins to slowly circle the table. As he walks he gently rubs a large plastic bag
over the child's body. First on his chest, then his torso, and then down his right leg. He repeats the routine as
he makes his way to the other side of the table. The shadows follow him everywhere he goes. Its tail
recoiling whenever touched by sunlight. As the man reaches the small boy's head, he becomes aware of what's
about to happen. Whatever defiance he had is gone and he becomes hysterical. He begs the man while
flailing against his restraints, "Don't do the bag! Please don't do the bag!"

It's at this point that the boy looks directly at me, like an actor looking into a camera to talk directly
to the viewer, and continues his worthless pleas. "Please stop! You can stop this!," he begs. His despair
is nauseating but I am unable to look away. Some invisible force is keeping my head locked, and eyelids
peeled on the boy. The scorpion man looks at the boy and raises a finger to his lips, "Shhh," he whispers.
The boy is unable to. The man then quickly and aggressively slides the bag over the boys head and
cinches it shut at the nape of his neck. The condensation appears immediately as the bag moves in
and out in rapid succession. The boy continues staring at me through the clear bag. His eyes never leave mine.
With no warning the screaming abruptly stops. His chest begins to slow. He's still conscious though so this has
to be a controlled reaction. "Is he conserving oxygen," I ask myself. The buildup of water vapor inside the bag
has caused his face to become soaked. The time in between blinks increases as the boy fights to stay awake.
Each time his eyes open they immediately look for mine. He's waiting.

I wake up. "Same dream," I quietly note to myself. I immediately realize, however, that the boy looking
directly at me was something new. It caused me to feel unsettled this time, but I quickly dismiss it.
I was efficient at dismissing things. I feel my wife wrap her arm around me and ask, "everything okay?"
My nightly commotions must have roused her awake tonight. I peel her arm off of me and tell her I'm fine.
I slide out of bed intent on making my way to the kitchen for some water. My mouth is dry.