Threnody (031).

(This is a 500-word-a-day novel project.)

What do we do?” Ryan whispered. It was a testament to how far they had come to accepting the new rules of this world that he had not pulled the gun, and she had not fallen back into that hazy shade of nothing that had coated her mind. They kept their distance, both of them cautious, keeping watch all around their perimeter. The shadows were long here, and the trees thicker. The boy stared at them, his eyes huge, just like in those horrible velvet portraits of sad-faced children that Jesse’s grandmother had been fond of. His face was plain, like all the rest of them, lacking any prominent features that would give them individuality. It was almost like they were dolls, pressed from the same machine, waiting to be painted.

Hi, Jesse said.

Hi, the boy said back, his voice matching hers in pitch.

Hey, Ryan said, taken aback. Uh . . . you okay?

Hey, the boy said. Uh . . . you okay? He was staring at them intently now, watching their mouths, outlining them with his eyes.

That’s going to get really annoying,” Ryan said, hooking his thumbs into his front belt loops. The boy looked at his own hands, and then down at his waist, as if trying to figure out what to do with them. What happened? Jesse said. Did the tree fall down? She felt foolish, but the boy was looking into her eyes, his widening slightly. She felt something in the air between them, some sort of pressure, something as slight as the breeze.

Fall…down, the boy said, his mouth moving carefully.

Jesse reached out slowly, and the boy did the same. Their fingers touched.

That’s not a good idea, Ryan said, moving nervously from one foot to the other.

The moment their skin made contact, memories bloomed behind her eyes, like flowers opening to the sun. Denny spraying her with the hose. Denny in his little swimming pool. Denny afraid of thunderstorms. A thousand visions of Denny sparkling through her mind, until she gasped and pulled free, holding her hand against her chest as if she’d been burned.

Stop it, she hissed.

Stop it, the boy said. He titled his head. I’m . . . Sorry? Sorry. Soooorrrrryyy.

It was almost comical, the way he kept saying the word, elongating the syllables, looking down at his own mouth as he spoke. That wasn’t the only thing that had happened – the boy’s skin color began to change, pinking, color filling his cheeks. His hair, a listless white, had darkened into blonde streaks with a small curl at the front, and the gray of his eyes was shifting slowly towards green.

He inspected his palms, tracing the lines across them with his fingers.

What is it? Ryan asked, a quaver to his voice. Jesse could only shake her head.

The boy looked back at his tree. It felled down.

It fell down, Jesse thought absently, always the editor.

Fell down, the boy repeated.