Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [41]
He’d been straining against the chains, and now he slumped back, breathing hard. “It was wrong what I did.”
“You were the only person I trusted,” came Sam’s measured reply, and with a sick heart, Paul knew the moment was over. “And when you set me up, you convinced me of what I always knew deep down. That you can only rely on yourself. I needed you once, Paul,” said Sam, standing. “But not now, not anymore.”
* * *
From his bed, he heard his parents’ voices drifting down the hallway: his father’s, low and even, punctuated by his mother’s, sharp with her hissing s’s. He could never make out the exact words, but it was impossible for him to sleep while they were fighting. He rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling. Whenever this happened, he invented games to distract himself. Bicycling his legs in the air until they ached, naming countries.
His door opened, letting in a crack of light. Sam slipped into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
“You awake?”
“Yep.”
“They’re fighting.”
“I know.”
Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. Paul knew he was waiting to be asked.
“You want to get in?”
“All right.”
Paul moved over and Sam slipped under the covers.
“It never seems as dark in your room,” Sam said. “It’s good.” They lay there in silence for a few moments, side by side. Paul was always amazed at how much heat his brother’s tiny body gave off, like some whirring electric dynamo. He could still hear the voices.
“You want to make a fort?”
“Yeah,” said Sam enthusiastically. He loved forts. Together they scooted down under the covers, creating a cave of blankets and sheets. There was no sound except for their own breathing.
“What do they fight about?” Sam asked from the darkness. “Maybe they wanted to watch different TV programs.” They both giggled.
“Maybe it’s money,” said Sam.
“No. We’ve got lots of money.”
“It’s me, then.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yesterday, when we came out of the doctor’s, Mom yelled at me.”
“She was just tired. You want to listen to the radio?”
“Okay.”
Paul leaned out from the covers into the cool of the room and grabbed the small transistor radio. Back inside their fort, he turned the round switch on the side of the radio. There was a familiar squelch of static, and the light came on behind the tuner.
They rolled through the stations, listening to scraps of news broadcasts, rock, big-band music. Then Paul found a comedy about a giant fish: there were exaggerated voices and funny sound effects. The giant fish was upsetting boats and terrorizing people. An old fisherman hooked it from the bridge, but the fish was so big the whole bridge came down.
They were giggling under the covers, sticking their heads out every once in a while to gulp in some fresh air.
“You sleepy?” Paul asked when the play was over.
“Uh-huh.”
Paul made out the sharp contours of Sam’s body, sprawled out, his head on a pillow, eyes closed.
“You going back to your room?”
“Yeah,” came the muffled reply. He didn’t move, faking sleep.
“Well, you can stay here if you want.” Paul tried to sound reluctant. No answer. Smiling to himself, Paul turned over on his side and went to sleep.
* * *
“You were crying in your sleep,” Monica said, stirring beside him.
“I wasn’t asleep.” He’d been wide awake since Sam left. He scrubbed away his tears with the back of his hand. “I was thinking about when we were little kids. He came down here while you were sleeping.”
“He did?”
“He’s helping them—you were right. They want to test the water on me.”
Monica just stared, speechless. Her hands were trembling. “We’re going to get out of here, Paul.”
He felt as if he were peering down at himself from a great height. “He said he stopped trusting me after what I did to him. People are unreliable, he said. You know what? He sounded exactly like you.” He shivered, suddenly cold.
“Paul, look—”
“So maybe he’s right.