Ursula gave a meek smile. “Any time.”
They were at the path’s entrance. He expected her to run off, but instead she leaned in as she handed him his backpack and whispered, “Is it true? About your memories? Tell me quickly. They’re probably watching.”
Kane pulled away. There was a hardness in Ursula’s stare now that had not been there a second ago, that had never been there. Right now, there was no meekness about her whatsoever.
“Your memories. Tell me. Please,” Ursula pressed. “I need to know.”
“I remember everything,” Kane said, defensive.
Ursula was unflinching as she assessed this for the lie that it was.
“You don’t. It’s true. The others were right.” She glanced around until her eyes tracked upon something over his shoulder, as though she saw things in the shadows he could not. The hair on the back of his neck rose up, and his burns prickled.
Beware of dog flashed in Kane’s mind.
“I remember…” Kane again felt his lost memories trying to guide him. “I remember Maxine Osman.”
Ursula’s eyes went wide, and Kane knew his guess had struck something. She edged even closer so that cricket song swathed them in chatter, as though she were afraid of being overheard.
“Never say that name again.”
“But—”
“I can’t help you. You have to find your way back to us on your own, Kane. Check the treasure chest.”
And then the old Ursula returned. Meek and unsure. Rounded by anxiety. “It was nice running into you,” she murmured, unable to even look him in the eye. “See you back in school.”
She jogged toward the path, messy bun bouncing. Kane watched her go, watched the dark where she vanished, and only moved when he felt the dark watching him back.
• Four •
FAR-FETCHED
“Kane. Wake up.”
Toes jabbed Kane’s ribs. He rolled over and pressed his cheek into the rug.
“C’mon. I have to practice.”
“Go ahead.” Kane yawned. “I like when you play the violin. It’s nice.”
“Viola,” Sophia said, jerking open the curtains in her room. He hissed and shriveled up in the late afternoon light, but Sophia didn’t laugh. She hadn’t been too friendly since he hung up on her a few days ago.
Kane was pretending he didn’t care. He yawned. His head hurt. He tried to remember the dream he’d been having, but all he found within himself was the usual soupy gloom. And, beneath the gloom, the same simmering dread that had kept him awake every night since he’d encountered those things on the path. And, of course, Ursula Abernathy. Check the treasure chest, she’d said, a riddle that wouldn’t let him rest. He only slept during the day now, and only by accident, waking up at the kitchen table with a spoon in his hand, or slumped over in the sunny spot on the landing, or draped across the living room ottoman with his PlayStation still humming.
“Let me guess.” She unlatched her viola case. “You’ve been lying here for hours, despondent.”
“Yep.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yep.”
“What?”
“Fruit snacks.”
The instrument hummed in Sophia’s hands as she removed it from the velvet interior. “Fruit snacks? Sounds like cannibalism to me.”
Kane propped himself up. “Was that a gay joke?”
In response, a pleasant, fat note rang out as Sophia carved the bow across the strings. She smiled at Kane vacantly the whole time, holding it extra long and finishing with a flourish.
“Why yes, it was a gay joke.”
Kane frowned. Sophia’s face was as blank and cold as the moon now, and she felt just as distant. Secrets were a new and uncomfortable thing between them. He wouldn’t tell her about his meeting with Dr. Poesy, or being chased on the path, or Ursula Abernathy. In exchange, he sensed she was keeping her own bank of secrets locked away. And so things had been tense, and her questions had become pointed. Kane had becoming both the prison and the prisoner within their locked-up siblingship.
“You got a haircut,” Sophia said.
“Mom tricked me into it to get me out of the house.”
“You look like a poodle who was drafted into the military.”
“Thank you.”
The metronome ticked on as Sophia ran through her warm-up. Kane let his mind drift between the wobbling notes. He wished he could tell her everything, but ever since he’d learned about Maxine Osman, his pain felt fraudulent, unearned, as though Maxine’s death forfeited his right to feel bad for his own near-death. The guilt didn’t just disarm him; it formed a new armor around him. A heavier guard that made the very idea of asking for help, or even sympathy, impossible. Kane wasn’t scared to talk about his pain; he was scared of making other people listen.
So he kept it all to himself. And, just like Dr. Poesy had said, in the absence of his own telling, his story was taken up by others. The Hartford Courant ran a piece on the accident, promising a follow-up as the investigation progressed. They didn’t name Kane, but they didn’t have to. East Amity was small, the town going silent around Kane every time he left the house. People whispered and told their own stories. It had been a very awkward haircut.
The heat of the memory spurred Kane up and out of Sophia’s room. He found his mom downstairs in her office.
“Sophia says I look like a poodle that just joined the military.”
His mom considered him. There was no denying this. The barber had left Kane’s curls tufted on top and done their best to clean up the hair that had gone crispy around Kane’s burns, which were more prominent than ever.
“What about wearing a hat? You used to love to wear your grandmother’s beret.”
Kane shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be any gayer.
“Hmm. I don’t know, honey. I think you kind of look rock-and-roll, you know? Like, a tough guy. A tough-guy poodle.” She grinned. “Or should I say…a ruff guy.”
“That’s not funny, Mom.”
“Well, it certainly seemed to give you…paws.”
Kane tried not to laugh and failed. Things had been tense with his parents, too, and this moment felt like progress. They had tried everything to get him to open up, but when he simply didn’t, their warmth had cooled to firmer kind of love. Something like fear, actually. Moments of easy banter were rare, and Kane leapt at the opportunity to pretend nothing was wrong.