Part 32 (1/2)

Breathing hard, but as quietly as he can.

Smells his own breath. The stink of his underarms. Glaze of sweat covering his body. s.h.i.+rt plastered to him. Hair wet and greasy against his scalp.

The chill that hasn't left him, not since he came up out of the earth. Burning chill.

She's going to do it.

Or I am.

One of them is going to scream again. He knows it. He wasn't even sure if he had stopped screaming a half hour before.

Problem is, when the screaming starts, it happens.

And neither of them wants it to happen.

But the puppy is okay.

It doesn't want the puppy.

That's what someone said before. How many minutes ago? Did he say it? Had he said it and just not remembered it? ”It doesn't want the puppy.”

She whispers something. Or else he imagines she whispers.

Or it's the sound of the leaves on the trees, brus.h.i.+ng the rooftop.

If it's her, it's wrong for her to whisper. Neither of them knows what decibel level it needs to find them, but she whispers anyway, ”Please say it's a game. Please G.o.d, say it's a game.”

He's not close enough, but he wants to hold her. Hold her tight. Rewind the night back to day, back a year or more, so he can undo it all. He wants everything to turn out okay, but he knows it won't.

Most of all, he wants her to shut her mouth up. He wants to hold her and press his lips or his hand against her mouth and keep in whatever she's trying to let out.

Silence. Come on, silence. Don't...

Even her whisper is too loud.

And it hears her.

And it wants to make her scream.

If she screams, it's all over.

Not just the game. The game will never be over.

If we can just hold out 'til daylight, he thinks.

But the noise begins. From her throat. He wants to shut her up, but he can't. He can't. She's over there in the dark, and he's on the other side of the room from her.

The scream is coming up from her lungs in a staccato gurgle. A hiccupping gurgle.

She can't hold it in.

That's when he hears the sound.