The first thing, the truest thing that
Boy noticed were her eyes. Pale ice over an artic ocean underneath, a
dead-grey suit trying to blunt them, a plump body to disguise. He
didn’t think the disguise was deliberate but couldn’t have said
if that made it a good thing or not. The room he had been put in was
small, off-green: a cheap table and cheaper chairs. There was a
smaller table by the door with coffee and water; Boy didn’t
understand coffee. The world didn’t need stimulants.
“You have been sitting here for an
hour,” the woman said, her calm a cracking ice. “You didn’t
have water once.”
Boy said nothing; there were rules
about not taking gifts, about drinking and eating in strange places.
That they might not be true didn’t stop them from being rules.
“The officer in charge called me.”
She placed a small square of paper on the desk.
Boy picked it up, read it aloud to
himself. “Arabetha Franklin, Social Worker.” There was more, but
that was the important bit. Speaking things gave them power.
Sometimes.
“And your name?” Arabetha said.
“Boy.”
“That isn’t a name.”
“It’s mine,” he said, with some
heat behind the words.
Arabetha let out a sigh. “We can’t
help you unless you help us as well. Who are your parents?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
“That only happens in stories.” The
social worker stood, staring down at him. “Do you want your face
plastered over every paper and tv station in the city as we find your
parents for you? Do you think they will want that?”
Boy went still at that. Behind
Arabella, his shadow smiled against the wall. His shadow had hair,
which Boy didn’t, and a smile that made Arabella’s eyes seem
kind. Boy didn’t like the smile but he had no way to stop it as his
shadow reached into Arabella’s and pulled forth ghosts to plaster
them onto the wall like faded photographs.
Arabella’s smile was a flash of ugly
victory at whatever she saw in Boy’s face. “Well?”
Boy stared past her into the phantoms
that faded even as his gaze took them in, listening to whispered
words at the edge of hearing. Arabella’s hand slammed into the
cheap table, shaking her coffee. She’s said other things.
Boy looked up. Her words flattered,
faltered. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You were kind
to Zoe. She was lost, scared, had run away from her step-mother like
they do in a children’s story. She went back home, after
interventions with her parents, but it wasn’t enough. You were less
kind to Joseph but still helped him get into a community college,
gave him everything you could but nothing replaced the high in the
end.”
“What?” Arabella’s voice is a
knife blade, ugly and scared and other things Boy isn’t sure about.
“The ghosts we carry with us are the
ones that break our hearts, until we have nothing left for them to
haunt. I think it’s like that sometimes,” Boy said. “Danielle
isn’t a ghost yet but she is terrified her parents will refuse to
accept she never should have been Daniel, will never see the truth
inside their son. Too many stories like his end badly, and those are
the only ones she knows.”
Boy stood, and it hurt to see Arabella
flinch back from him.
“How do you know that?” she said.
“Is this some trick?”
“I’m not Mr. Fox,” Boy said,
though she had no way of understanding that. “I think, I think I
gained some things, when I lost myself. Or they gained me. I don’t
know. I just know everyone carries anb echo of the Wasting inside
them and sometimes I can see that.”
The social worker said nothing. Boy
wanted to try to explain, but somehow ‘sorry’ didn’t seem
enough and he had no idea how to explain what he didn’t understand
himself. She didn’t move as he walked to the door, didn’t even
react when the locked door opened for him (though Boy was unaware it
was locked at all); he asked his shadow to take her phantoms with it
but had no way of knowing if that happened at all.
No one stopped him from leaving the
police station even though Boy was certain they should have tried. He
found the nearest streetlight and just stood under it, as if somehow
the light could make his shadow go away.
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