Some Quiet Place by Kelsey Sutton Page B

it’s obvious the girl is dead. I find myself trying to calculate what marked her and made her stand out to Fear. We have nothing in common; he said so himself. Do I look like her? Was she surrounded by mystery as well?
I don’t voice any of the questions, because Fear’s posture is stiff and I know he’s reached his limit for truths tonight. But maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought.
    We fall silent again, each buried in our own pasts and unsatisfactory circumstances. It’s not like the silence yesterday with Charles, a stillness where we didn’t speak because there was no need to say anything. No, this silence with Fear is laden with a thousand words, meanings, hints, inclinations.
    The sun is gone entirely, sunken down into the other side of the world. Somehow it always happens without my noticing. The only source of light now—the moon is smothered by clouds—is an old, flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling. As one, Fear and I look at it.
    What a peculiar pair we must make, I think. I see it from the outside: surrounded by strange paintings, a seemingly ordinary human girl sits, face devoid of all expression, looking as if she belongs among the wood and the hay. Beside her, lounging against the wall with so many expressions on his face that you could never hope to catch and define just one, is a lovely, changeless being, whose very name evokes shivers down the spine. He looks so out of place in the barn that anyone else would keep blinking, thinking he would vanish in another instant.
    “You never answered my question,” I say when the hush is broken by a cow moaning in its stall below.
    Fear shifts his position a bit, enough so that his shoulder is pressed to mine. He can’t resist. For once I stay where I am. Maybe it’ll make him cooperate. “What question?” he inquires. I raise my brows at him. Fear smiles, knowing that he hasn’t fooled me. “I answered you as best I could.” He runs his finger down my cheek before I can evade the touch.
    “No, you didn’t. I asked you if you ever get tired of it all, and you sidestepped it pretty skillfully.”
    “But it is my only purpose,” he points out logically.
    A breeze has picked up strength, slipping through the cracks in the walls. It stirs my hair, cooling my skin. The air and Fear’s closeness make me shiver again. He notices. In a blur he’s crossed the room, picked up a horse blanket I brought up for cold nights like this, and draped it around my shoulders. I don’t thank him; showing gratitude would be unwise.
    “You’re tired,” Fear says suddenly, sounding surprised.
    I tighten the blanket, huddling into its warmth. A screaming flash hits me, an image of the boy’s shrinking pupils. I pull the blanket tighter. “I haven’t slept well, is all.”
    Fear hesitates. “I … ” The hay begins to tremble again as he, again, becomes edgy. He plunges. “I could help you sleep.”
    He means he could use his power. But his offer isn’t what’s out of the ordinary—it’s the motive behind it. In the strength of his uncertainty, his carefully constructed expression of arrogance has weakened, melting away to vulnerability, and I see that he isn’t thinking of himself or personal gain. His only thought is of me.
    I don’t comment on my discovery. “No. I’ll manage on my own.”
    Fear’s expression closes, and he nods. The distance he’s put between us is slight but palpable. “Perhaps I should leave you to your rest, then.” Deliberately formal.
    I watch him stand, feeling the pierce of shovels inside me, digging the hole of inhumanity deeper, deeper. “Okay.”
    The air around him practically crackles. I’ve hurt Fear’s ego by rejecting his offer of help.
    “You really do feel nothing,” he says to me, voice colder than a Wisconsin blizzard. “I thought you had to feel something , even just a little. Sometimes when I touched you, or watched you, I thought I saw a glimmer of humanity.”
    “I’ve never lied