Page 28 of The Sound of Him

Where did he come from? Am I in trouble? Was that apple not for the survivors? Or maybe just not for me?

Can he tell I’m not real?

Is he about to remind me that ghosts don’t need to eat?

“Matt, right?” he asks, his voice the same as his smile.

No, actually.

I nod anyway.

Another smile, still not comforting. “I was wondering if you had some time to meet with me? There are a few things I would like you to know, both about the safehouse and about your own treatment.”

It’s not exactly ayesornoquestion, but it’s close enough where I could nod or shake my head and he’d still understand.

It’s a trick question, though, because of course I have the time to meet. It’s not like I have plans. My schedule pretty much consists of sitting around hungry and quiet by myself, sitting around hungry and quiet with Nolan or Bryce or maybe even Carter or Casey, or being hungry and quiet while I nap.

I take too long to answer.

He fills the silence with more words. “It’s just important to me that you’re informed about your care here. I’m not asking for a therapy session. We don’t need to discuss what you’ve been through or talk about feelings - not if you don’t want to. I just want you to know your options. Think of it as a consult. Even milder than a consult, really.”

I could probably get away withyesornoto this too. I’d just have to use my head, since he doesn’t know about the other methods that Dr. Deacon told me I could use. Nolan uses those methods now too, and he must have told Bryce because he understood when I accidentally gave him two fingers as anothis morning.

That’s three people who can communicateyesandnowith me.

Dr. Something isn’t one of them.

God, what’s his name again? I know that I know it. What is it?

There’s a notebook and a pen in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, right beside my bunny.But if my head doesn’t want to shake or nod, then how would I look down at the notebook to write? Should I try to look away to test it?

Maybe if I can successfully look away, it’ll unlock something inside of me and I’ll suddenly be able to control my movements?That might be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. It makes zero sense.

Then again, I can apparently scream, which means I can make sound, so the whole not being able to speak thing makes zero sense too.

Imake zero sense.

Because I’m broken.

I can sense the apple still at my feet, probably bruised, ruined, dropped by a ghost who had no business trying to take it.

Maybe there was a booby trap after all.

“How about this?” he asks. I snap my eyes up to look at him. Which means I managed to look away at some point, without even noticing. Which means my stupid head is working after all, despite it being too late now to use it. “I’m going to leave my office door open for the next hour, but I’ll tell anyone who stops by that I’m not available unless it’s an emergency. If you feel up for it, I would love for you to stop in. Absolutely no pressure. You won’t be in trouble if you don’t. I won’t be upset.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond this time. He just smiles again, nods once, and walks away.

I know it’s supposed to take the weight off of me. The pressure. I know it’s supposed to make me feel comfortable or safe or in control. Instead, it feels like he left a grenade at my feet and walked away with the pin.

A grenade in the form of a bruised apple.

“You don’t have to,” a voice says from my right.

I jerk around for the second time in a matter of minutes, a sharp breath catching in my throat as a wave of déjà vu washes over me. It’s not the therapist this time, though.

It’s the man who brought me the tote bag.

The notebook and pen in my sweatshirt are from that bag. They match. The notebook is blue with little white flowers so delicately drawn that they almost just look like squiggles from far away. The pen is white, but its little grippy-thing is almost the exact same shade of blue.