Page 123 of The Sound of Him

I’m being handed something. Casually. A tube.

He hands it to me and turns back around to open up the muffin box. It has six muffins in it, all of them as big as his broad palm.

He’s holding a muffin and I’m holding-

I’m holding-

I’m holding, I’m holding, I’m holding-

“You already have one stashed in your hiding spot, so that one you’re holding is all yours to do with whatever you want. Keep it on you. Or don’t. Whatever. There’s one in every common room now, and one in your bedroom, too. Sorry we weren’t on top of that. The order got delayed so I had someone else get them for me instead. Which means we’re going to have a fuck ton when the original comes in, but you can never be too safe, yeah? Or we can like donate them or something. Stupidly fucking expensive. Should be illegal. Hey, have you ever had these? Because they were on sale and seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m wondering if that’s a little too adventurous, you know? Eh, whatever. You only live once, right? I think-”

I’m holding a tube that is white plastic on the bottom and orange plastic at the top and in between there is a bright yellow label with instructions beside a drawing of a person’s leg.

I’m holding an EpiPen.

He bought me an EpiPen.

He bought the whole house EpiPens.

I have one in my hand. I have one in my hiding spot. I have one in my bedroom.

Is this how Bryce saved me the night of the party, or did he use some other drug or technique?

I never asked.

But thiswillsave me. Even if it’s not what he used that night, this will definitely do it. I know that for sure. I always had one growing up. Mamá and papá were always really careful to save up the money for it. They never let it expire. It was always in my backpack, and if I was home then my backpack was always on the third hook by the door.

This is important, mi pollito. This will save you. Don’t lose it.

I never, ever lost it.

But theytookit - the agents. They took it and I never got it back.

Now I have another one.

Now I haveso many.

“-speak now or forever hold your peace, you know? Or notspeak, obviously, but throw something at me. Not your EpiPen, though. Don’t throw that. Uh - here.” Something is being shoved at me now. A small, crinkly bag of plain potato chips, baked, with 50% less sodium. “Throw that at me if you oppose.”

If I… oppose?

Oppose what?

He sits in his chair, his long fingers settling on the keyboard.

I feel myself moving without thinking about it. It’s like my body knows that when he’s at his computer, I belong in my hiding spot. My legs take me while I’m still dazed by the pen in my hand. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I register the blankets.

There are blankets, a big pile of them, in my corner. I can see a rainbow quilt, red and black plaid fleece, a knitted yellow, afuzzy light blue. On top of the pile is a new notebook, this one even smaller than the usual ones I can fit in my front pocket. The cover is full of differently shaded purple stripes. There’s a purple pen tucked into the spiral.

I fold down to the floor and take the notebook, opening it to see if it’s one of the ones with lines to write on or all the little dots across the pages.

What I find is a note, the handwriting matching the one he’d left on my bed. This one reads:

Figured you could use a go-to notebook to keep in here.

For song requests. Or disapproving assaults. Or whatever else you want.

Blankets are yours too. I tried to find the softest ones.