Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
—Emily Dickinson, 1863
Chapter 83
ROHAN
River water hits the dock. The boy can hear it, but he can’t see it—not the water, not the dock. He can’t see anything. The woman holds him close, hums a quiet, soothing song, and in that song, he hears what she is not saying, words she has said before:Don’t cry, don’t cry. Whatever you do, my beautiful boy, don’t cry.
The boy knows: This is her punishment as much as his.
Rohan had always been able to wake himself up—always. But this time was different. Half-conscious, sluggish,drugged, he couldn’t pull himself all the way out. He couldn’t make it stop.
“Give him to me.”
“Please.”The memory of the woman begging tore into Rohan like teeth. It washed over him like dark water, until there was nothing except the memory.
“We both know you’re going to give him to me eventually, and if you fight me on it, if you disobey me again, it’s going to be so much worse when you do.”
The woman touches her lips to the top of the boy’s head, then she hands him to the man.
“Maybe I should let him drown this time.”
The woman doesn’t argue. She doesn’t even hum.
“Choose a stone, woman.”
As small as the boy is, he knows: She’s going to do it. The boy doesn’t know what the man is planning to do with it, not at first—
And then the man shows him the twine. The woman’s hands are shaking too hard to tie the rock to Rohan’s ankle, so the man does the job himself, and then he tells the woman to choose another stone, a bigger stone, for the boy’s other ankle, and when she shakes her head, the man backhands her, turns on the boy, and makeshimchoose.
“This time,” the man says, “you’ll sink all the way down.”
No, a voice roars inside the boy, but he knows that if he fights, the man will hurt the woman worse—the woman who is soft and warm, the woman who kissed his head andgavehim to the man.
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Whatever you do, my beautiful boy, don’t cry.
The boy doesn’t. He doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t choosearock. He choosestwo: one the size of the man’s fist and one much larger. The smaller of the two, the boy holds under his arm, thankful—for once—for the dark.
The larger rock is so large the boy can barely haul it back—large enough that it will take time for the man to do the job, and he’ll have to bend down to do it.
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Whatever you do, my beautiful boy, don’t cry.
The man crouches, and the boy moves oh so slowly to close his right hand over his remaining rock.
Hedoesn’tcry.
And he doesn’t hesitate, either.
The woman is screaming.
There’s blood everywhere, and the woman is screaming, and the boy is on top of the man, and the man is not moving. But the boy—he does not stop. He just keeps hitting the man with the rock again and again and again, as hard as he can, until the screaming woman stops him, and suddenly the only thing the boy can think, over and over again is:You never stoppedhim.
