Page 55 of The Sound of Him

Jake isn't the only one who I don’t want to -

“And the others,” he says like he can read my mind. His finger moves to another box. “Adam - sorry, Dr. Singh -is still in his office, working late again.” And another. “Dr. Deacon’s office is empty. He’s gone for the night. He sleeps in the support staff cabin up the road.” And another. “Maison is here.”

Ace doesn’t say it, but I can see for myself that Nolan is there too. He’s sitting beside Carter’s brother, Maison, the two of them in the living room by the fire. Worry gnaws at my gut, but he seems okay. Maison is probably safe to be around. He’s Carter’s brother and Carter is one of us. Sort of. Enough like us, at least. He’s safer than Travis. He’s definitely safer than Jake.

Ace taps three separate boxes, drawing my attention toward them. They’re all showing a different angle of the house’s exterior. “Support is stationed here, here, and here. They stay in the cabin too. They can't even get in this house without the use of their emergency code, which alerts everyone, plus sets off alarms, so we would know if they ever tried. Not that they're bad guys or anything, but we wanted to keep things as tight as we could, and we - me, Travis, Maison, and Jake, I mean - trust each other a lot more than anyone else. We've been together too long not to.”

I eye the rest of the screens again, letting that all sink in. He’s watching everything from here. He’s watching for threats, both inside and outside of the house. He’s watching us explore andgrow. He’s watching Nolan cook and Casey swim and Bryce glare at anyone who isn’t a survivor.

He’s probably been watching me.

But even if he does, he hasn’t done anything about what he’s seen. He hasn’t tattled on me to the doctors. He hasn’t confronted me himself. He gave me that apple, but I don’t think that was a pointed way to get me to eat, I think it was just a coincidence.

Even if it wasn’t a coincidence, it was a nice apple. A really nice apple.

So, maybe he watches me, watches us. Maybe he knows our secrets. Those maybes should feel scary. They did, just a minute ago.

But he’s talking now, his tone light and laced with laughter as he says things like, “-is such a pouter. He hates working shifts up in the tree post. Especially at nights. He’s allowed to have coffee, but then he has to piss in a bottle, and he’s a bit snobby about-”

And, “-should hear him talk, it’s the most ridiculous accent you could ever imagine. I swear, you need subtitles to-”

And, “-fucking badass. If I had to pick anyone to have my six, it’d be her. She did a few years in the-”

And, “-oh, wait, here, look - see that? Fucking owl. Isn’t that cool? I grew up in the city, so I’m still kind of new to this whole nature thing, but-”

And through all of it, I’m not scared. I’m not overwhelmed. Because he knows so many things, up here where he can see all of us, but all he does with that knowledge is protect it. Protect us.

My eyes start to burn, my throat tight.

It’s not that I’m upset or creeped out or anything like that. I just… I want to engage with him. He isn’t asking me to, isn’t expecting me to, there’s no pressure, no fragile hope, no big doe eyes filled with worry - and it makes me want it even more.

I want to ask him about the man in the tree and how Ace knows that he’s pouting. About the accent of the guy around the corner. About the woman’s time in the middle east.

I want to ask him about the city where he grew up. About his family. His friends. I want to tell him about the cool little lizards that were always around my house growing up. About the pet cat I had wanted but could never have because papá was allergic.

I have so many words. So many questions. So many things to tell.

But I can’t.

That fact hasn’t felt this devastating in a very long time.

“It’s a lot, right?” he asks. He’s looking at me now, face open and calm, voice soft and warm. At first, I think he means the cameras, but then he says, “I used to hide, when everything felt like too much. When my head would get messy. I couldn’t do closets or pantries. Nothing small with doors. I liked under the bed the best. Behind our living room couch was my second favorite.”

I blink away the burn in my eyes, focusing on him.

He hides? Under the bed?

Like me?

And - and his head - it gets messy, too?

He leans back in his chair, away from me. His hands are loosely clasped against his stomach, his head tilted so our eyes can meet, his lips curved into an easy smile. One of those smiles that doesn’t expect anything from you. No pity, no concern, no questions. It’s just a smile that’s there for you to look at. To enjoy.

It’s… a really nice smile.

I think I could probably just stand here all night looking at it. Maybe if I stared long enough, if I tried hard enough, it’d settle right inside my chest until I can’t forget the warm feel of it.

“I still check for hiding places whenever I’m in a new room,” he tells me, everything about him still so soft and unassuming. “It’s probably ridiculous. Definitely not healthy. I haven’t had the urge to do it for a while now. Been even longer since I actually did it.” He shrugs. Easy. Calm. “But I still look. Every new room. Every store. Every restaurant. First thing I do, without even meaning to. I figure I could have worse coping mechanisms, right? What’s the harm in wanting to know the safest place, just in case I need it.”