Monsters by Peter Cawdron

before the words left her lips.
    “How did you know?” she blurted out.
    “I knew," he replied, “because you're so confident in what you know.”
    “Who have you told?”
    “No one,” Bruce replied, raising his hands in his defense. “I haven't told anyone, and I won't tell anyone.”
    “How did you,” she stopped mid-sentence, and he understood this was scary for her.
    She looked at him with suspicion, as though she were trying to figure out whether he had an agenda, whether he was fronting for someone else.
    “I guessed. You... You were so assertive at the tollgate. You knew about rabies. You knew what to do. I figured the only way you could be so confident was from reading.”
    Jane pulled up a chair, sitting down at the table, her hands just inches from his. Her visage changed, her smile dropped.
    “This is bad. This is very bad. I've been too careless—reckless. You cannot tell anyone,” she pleaded. “Men are scared of women who read.”
    Bruce reached out and held her hand, saying, “Not all men.”
    Her fingers were warm, soft to touch. He should have let go, but he couldn't. Somehow, by reaching out, he'd broken through an unspoken taboo.
    He ran his fingers up over her hand wanting to reassure her of his intentions. She breathed deeply as his hand ran around her wrist. Her skin felt as soft as fine silk. She flinched, and he could feel her sense of hesitancy. Jane clearly wanted to pull away, and yet she did not want to let go of the moment. He could see it was too much for her, too soon, so he pulled back, saving her from a decision either way.
    Jane laughed, relieving the tension.
    “Why now?” she asked. Her eyes cast upwards looking at the roof. She wasn't talking to him. He wasn't sure who she was talking to and figured she was speaking metaphorically. “After all these years, I finally find someone that wants to learn, and yet I probably only have weeks to live. Why now? Why not five years ago?”
    She looked him in the eye, as though she were trying to read his very soul. “You want to read? Do you know what you're asking? Do you understand the burden you're taking on?”
    “I want what you have,” he replied.
    Jane breathed deeply in response to his comment. She ran her good hand through her hair, ruffling it as she thought for a moment.
    “I'm dead anyway,” she said with a sigh.
    “You'll survive,” Bruce said.
    “Now, look who's full of confidence? Lesson number one: when it comes to knowledge, there are two kinds of confidence. The confidence that comes from understanding, and a fool's confidence, the bliss that comes from ignorance.”
    “But you will survive,” Bruce said. “I'm sure of it. I can feel it.”
    “I appreciate your sentiment, really I do, but lesson number two: your feelings are irrelevant. This cold world cares not for what you believe, for what you think, or for what you feel. There's no magic, no wishful thinking, no earnest desire that can bend nature to your will.
    “You want to learn to read? OK, I will teach you to read. In the days I have left, I will instruct you, but I warn you, with every privilege comes a burden. It will take you years to learn to read properly.
    “Reading is far more than picking words off a page. It is to breathe in another's soul, to walk in their shoes. When you read, you lose yourself and inhabit another's life, the life of one that went before you on this Earth.”
    “Sounds fascinating,” Bruce replied. “When do we begin?”
    “Hold on, cowboy. It's not that easy. This isn't something you can pick up in an afternoon. At first, you'll struggle. For months if not years. You'll wonder if it's worth it. You'll lose patience. You'll lose interest. You'll think it's not worth the danger of being caught by the villagers, but if you push your mind, drive it hard like a plow horse breaking the frozen ground in spring, then you'll learn what it really means to be a reader.”
    She paused before continuing, looking deep into