Blaze

9. Comfort in Noise

No one talks on the way back. My head pounds, so I make no effort to break the silence, either. I think it's better that way. Nothing would sound right. And if anything did, that would be wrong in and of itself.

When we pull into my driveway, the silence persists. The greyness of my house—it's like somebody rode ahead of us and stole all the colour—doesn't help.

The windows are dark grimaces. The roof is an old, lopsided hat. The path is framed by light yellow, broken grass. Dead. The porch is too tiny to be comfortable, and the closest thing to a chair is the sagging railing wrapped around its length. Birds used to gather upstairs to chat, favouring the shade of our attic and easy access through a shattered window. But the birds are gone now, and everything's dead.

Dead.

Just like Tim.

My home looks like something's sigh. Like the first draft of the architect's plans—the one with unintelligible scribbles all over it—was built without consent or supervision. I see those scribbles in the blurred, confused lines of the house front.

Blank-faced, Jackie makes a gesture as if to turn back (presumably toward her place), but Austin grabs her handlebars almost roughly and says, "I'm not letting you be alone."

"I want to die between my own four walls. What do you want?"

Her words ring through my head as she frowns and halts. Is she thinking of them, too?

Is that why she wants to go home?

Austin must realize how forceful he sounds, because he lowers his voice almost immediately.

"Please. Don't go on alone."

"Why?" She sounds very tired.

I can think of a few reasons.

Austin hides behind his hair and drops his scooter. I say nothing, because I'm curious as to what he'll respond.

"I remembered that we have some water left over. Just a little bit." He turns away from me. "I thought you might want some before you leave."

Our house is bone dry. He knows this, too. Apart from the crusty things at the bottom of our water pail, we have nothing left to spare.

"Austin—" I begin.

"Don't be selfish, Cam," he snaps at me. Then, checking himself again: "Sorry."

"You didn't mention this before." I vaguely realize I've never heard Jackie talk as much as she did today. Her voice still has a quiet quality to it, though, even when she's not whispering.

"Come inside." It's an order and a plea all in one.

Austin gathers the water pails—mine, his, Jackie's—and carries them, half-stacked into each other, across the path and through the front door. God, it should be funny. The effort makes him pant. But I can't produce a laugh. The air has thickened; it smells yellow with sweat. Laughing would be dangerous.

I don't move yet.

"What I said before," Jackie murmurs to me (I don't look at her), "don't take it the wrong way, okay? I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did," I say just as quietly. My head throbs with heat. "And you're right. I'm stupid." Tim makes me stupid.

She doesn't answer (conserving energy is a must), but I hear her swallow. I do the same. It's as if the bald man's drink awakened a thirst I didn't know I had: my throat is dry gravel, and every breath is fire and salt.