Read Online Drawn Into Darkness by Nancy Springer - Free Book Online Page B

not blank, not expressionless; far from it. He looked completely human and nearly sick with concern.
    Setting the milk aside and standing, he said, “You can’t chew on cereal with your mouth messed up like that. Peanut butter sandwich?”
    â€œApplesauce?” I suggested.
    â€œSure.” Like an eager waiter at an upscale restaurant he strode off, and when he came back, he brought me an applesauce sandwich. Applesauce between two slices of insipid white bread.
    I tried not to laugh, if only because my ribs hurt, but I guess he could see I was amused. “Duh. This isn’t what you meant.”
    â€œI’ll eat it. Looks good.”
    I managed to down part of the applesauce sandwich, after which he fed me more applesauce from a bowl with a spoon. Then he brought soap, water, and a terry cloth dish towel, very carefully washed and dried my face, and with a gentle finger spread Neosporin on the worst of the damage. “I’m glad you can’t see yourself,” he muttered.
    â€œWhat? You’re not going to bring me a mirror?”
    â€œNo!” Then, after a moment’s thought he added, “You have a weird sense of humor, don’t you?”
    â€œYeah. I do.”
    â€œDo you want me to change those wrappings on your wrists and ankles?”
    â€œAre you joking?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, only if you feel like it.”
    Apparently he did feel like it, and as he went through the considerable trouble of gently soaking the gauze away from the scabs, I began to wonder why. Formulating some theories, none of them very pleasant, I began to feel the invisible leaden sensation on my chest gaining weight. But I said nothing to Justin until he had finished his self-assigned job with salve and fresh gauze. Then he left with the breakfast detritus, and I could hear him doing dishes in the sink. If he hadn’t come back into my room—my prison—I would not have called him.
    But he did come back in, to sit wordlessly on the edge of the bed.
    â€œSo why did Stoat skip my potty break this morning?” I asked. “Is he so mad at me he wants me to bust wide open?”
    Justin shrugged, looked down, didn’t answer.
    Just for something to say I remarked, “It’s raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock, isn’t it?”
    â€œUh-huh.” A barely audible answer.
    â€œIs it supposed to go on like this all day?”
    No question could have been more banal, so Justin’s reaction took me completely by surprise. He opened his mouth but made no sound except a weak gasp. His face went chalk white, and he swayed as if he might faint.
    â€œJustin!” Reflexively and of course quite unsuccessfully I tried to grab him, jangling my shackles.
    â€œI’m all right,” he whispered, both hands flat against the mattress to brace himself.
    â€œJustin, what’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œJustin, tell me. I’m going to have to pee the bed and get beat up again, is that it?”
    Startled, he looked at me with haunted eyes, then lowered them. “Sure, that’s it.”
    â€œNo, it’s not.” The lie was as transparent as a ghost. “Justin, tell me.
Look at me.
Whatever it is, just spit it out.”
    He faced me, his smooth skin nearly as gray as the day, and he forced out a few struggling words. “It—it’s supposed to rain all day and night.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo—you asked what he’s been waiting for.”
    Before I could respond with more than dumb shock, Justin ran from the room.
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    Charles Stuart “Chad” Bradley, driving from one prospective client to another in his red Ram pickup truck, felt profoundly alone, and not just because of the monotonous slash pine plantations for miles all around him, not just because of the immensity of the relentlessly blue sky, not just because of the long, straight, empty road