2.

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"I want to help you."

Zero glanced up from his paper, eyes crinkled in confusion.

"You are helping me," he said, gesturing to the words he was practicing.

"Not with that," Stanley said softly, and it took Zero a moment to understand before his face became shut, cold, his eyes flat.

"I'm fine," he said stiffly.

"Don't do that," Stanley said.

"Do what?" Zero asked stubbornly.

"That. That cold thing. Don't do that."

Zero said nothing.

"Don't do that to me," Stanley said.

Zero looked at him then, and behind the hardness in his eyes, Stanley could see the vulnerability and fear he was trying to hide.

"Don't do that to me," he repeated.

Zero closed his eyes, as if he was fighting against something.

The silence in the tent was thick and heavy, and Stanley thought it felt like those moments when you had finished the last drop in your canteen, and you knew the water truck was due any second.

Zero opened his eyes, picked up his pencil and began copying the word 'kite'.

Stanley felt like the water truck had just passed him by.

It was another seven nights before Stanley dared broach the subject again.

His time was measured by nights now, the thirtieth, thirty first, thirty second night that he couldn't help Zero.

He didn't sleep a wink. He didn't have to try not to anymore.

On the thirty third night, he spoke.
"I won't let him."

They were alone in the tent, but Zero's eyes darted from side to side, as if he was afraid someone was listening.

"Don't," he said.

Stanley stepped toward him. His heart was pounding in his clenched fist.

"I won't let him," he said again, and he clenched the other fist, afraid his heart might trip down his fingertips and run away.

Zero shook his head.

"Hector," Stanley whispered, and Zero jumped like a startled rabbit as the tent flap opened, the moment lost amongst the other boys, their voices loud and intruding, movement disturbing the fragile stillness.

Zero got into bed and lay with his back to Stanley.

Stanley stared at him until his eyes watered, and did not sleep.

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