Page 82 of The Sound of Him

When Travis starts to shout, I don’t look at him or Maison, I look at Jake. He’s focused in, eyes darting between both of our friends, his body poised to jump up if he needs to stop things from getting physical. It leaves the responsibility of the remaining survivors on me. I check each of them - Bryce, with that knife he stole now firmly clenched in his hand beneath the table; Casey, with his face pale and shoulders hunched; Nolan, curling in on himself like he wants nothing more than to disappear.

And Matt.

Matt, who is walking away on unsteady legs, the glass of water he’d been drinking still in his hand.

He didn’t eat.

No one has finished their meal yet - no one probably will, now that the table has become an episode ofJerry Springer- but Matt hadn’t even started. It’s not the first time he’s left upset and not the first time I’ve found his plate untouched when he did so. It’s not even the second. Not to mention the meals he’s never even showed up to in the first place.

My stomach clenches at the implications of that, but I try not to let the worry spiral into something more.

I don’t do an entirely great job of it.

By the time I’m at my office, I’ve stacked up a pretty good pile of anxious thoughts.Is this a newer issue? Is it because of the safehouse? Because of the operatives? Does he not eat when others are around? Does that mean he’s at least eating in his room? How many times have I seen him - or anyone else - bring meals into that room? Should I look back on the feeds? Is that an invasion of privacy? This isn’t necessarily emergent, but it’s health-related, isn’t it? Does Dr. Deacon know? Does Adam?

Should I bring him some food? Would that upset him? Embarrass him? Would he be grateful? What if he felt pressured to eat the stuff? What if he was too afraid to say no? What if it’s not a choice he’s making, but something that’s medically wrong that’s keeping him from eating? Would he still make himself eat to please me? Make himself sick?

Has he been getting sick? Is that it?

Is there something wrong with his system?

Is he-

My office door is locked.

I didn’t lock it before leaving, but now it’s locked.

Maybe I did lock it?I’ve been so damn tired lately. It’s plausible.

I remove the chain that’s always around my neck, grabbing one of the two keys that hang from it and slotting it into theknob. The lock clicks as it disengages. I’m already slipping the necklace back on when I try the knob again.

It still doesn’t budge.

There’s a second lock, of course. It’s the lock I use to keep the other guys out when I need to make sure I won’t be walked in on. The problem is that the second lock can only be set from the inside. Which means there’s no way I locked it by accident before leaving.

Whoever locked it is still in there.

I carefully slot the second key into the lock above the knob. It clicks just like the first. When I try the knob again, it gives. The door swings open in unison with the single step I take forward.

The office is dim, but not dark. I make sure it canneverbe dark. The plug-in dim lights are enough for me to effectively scan the small space, my mind too messy and exhausted to put the clues together at first. It isn’t until I see the glass of water on the table beside the couch that I realize what happened.

Matt didn’t run away to hide in his room. Matt came here. Matt felt safehere.

It knocks the wind out of me. I have to concentrate on breathing - inhaling, exhaling, inhaling again - before I have a grasp on things again.

“Gonna turn the rest of the lights on. You might want to brace yourself for how bright it’ll be,” I say in a carefully even voice. I wait a moment, giving him a chance to process the warning, before doing just that. I blink a few times to adjust to the difference myself.

Then I close the door and lock it. Both locks.

My system boots up fast, opening straight to the profile I use as an operator. I look out of the corner of my eye to make sure Matt isn’t coming out of his spot before entering the code that switches to my secret profile instead. This has one more notification than the other. I grimace, knowing whatever thatone message is about is going to make my already growing headache much worse.

“I’m going to put music on again,” I announce. “If anyone has a problem with that, the previous rules still stand. I accept all forms of communication, including written notes and soft projectiles. Song requests are welcome as long as they aren’t disco - ABBA's not included - or shitty country. And no stealing my licorice.”

There’s no response, but I didn’t expect there to be, already starting the music. The last thing I want is for him to feel like I’m waiting for him to answer. I promised him he could hide here. Having expectations for him to engage is the opposite of what he needs for this to be a safe place.

I go for something a little more upbeat this time around. Partly because we could both use a bit of a mood-lift after the fight downstairs, but mostly because I am reaching a level of exhaustion that makes me worry I might just fall asleep with my eyes open. There’s a certain playlist I made specifically to keep me awake, full of songs with enough energy and noise to let me borrow some from them.

As my playlist kicks off with a 1987Starshipclassic, I grab an energy drink from my mini-fridge and one of the meal bars I keep stashed in one of my desk’s drawers. I hesitate, eyeing the rest of the food in the drawer, knowing I have more hidden in other places too.Would it be weird if I offered him food? Would he force himself to eat it even if he doesn’t want it? Would he make himself-