Page 122 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Riley’s heart twists with useless, traitorous hope. ‘I know that, yeah.’

‘Keep being good and maybe next year, we’ll see.’

Disappointment tastes like mattress stuffing.

Riley is used to it.

He falls asleep on his windowsill, dreaming of the sea.

✴

As the heat hits its peak in August, something new begins.

Riley gets a migraine for the first time in his life.

The pain is so bad that he throws up while his nose bleeds.

It’s so bad that Troy sits with him in the bathroom, patting his back.

When it passes, Riley’s hearing has gone haywire.

He can suddenly hear whispering three floors up. He can tell who is on the other side of the door from the pattern of their heartbeat alone. He hears trees creak and whisper. He hears the roots telling tales as they share food with one another and the earth is humming always and the sky is full of chimes. The clatter of an iron pot in the kitchen makes Riley wince. Spoken words are a gut punch. The mice are marching parades through the walls.

The same thing is happening to his ears as it did to his nose, but no amount of painkillers helps this time.

Troy’s bedroom is on the top floor of their tall home.

One day when Riley is non-verbal, curled in a ball on his bed, dry sobbing, trying not to anger anyone, Troy carries him up there.

Inside this new room, he sets Riley down on a bed and goes elsewhere.

When he scoops Riley up again, his hands are damp. He lowers him into a deep, lukewarm bath.

‘Hold your breath,’ Troy says before he pushes him under.

Silence. Peace. Relief.

Riley could cry.

His whole body relaxes, muscles unlocking, inner cheeks bitten raw.

He only comes up when he needs air and Troy helps him balance to float so his ears stay under while he breathes.

‘Better?’ Riley nods. ‘Good. Stay there till it passes.’

It won’t pass, but Riley takes what relief he can get.

✴

It’s not like the scents.

It doesn’t settle in his mind.

He can hear everything, too much.

The filament of a light bulb is a screaming off-key orchestra.

A chair scraping across concrete is like jagged metal tearing his own skin.