Chapter 3
Without Leave
I pulled my hand back.
Not because I was strong. Because I was a coward.
In the morning I decided to be like everyone else. The plan lasted until breakfast.
The class chat pings. Someone posted a meme. Life goes on, apparently.
I touch nothing I don't have to.
ClassmateYou cold, or what?
Better to be the weird one than the one who hears things.
My hand doesn't listen to me anymore.
It wants things. Any of them. Just to touch.
Someone else's afternoon. Someone else's boring test.
It comes more often now. Stronger. Without my asking.
I clench my fists until it hurts.
Who would I even tell? "My hand isn't mine anymore."
Home is quiet the way a house is quiet when it's missing someone.
I promised myself I'd walk past his door this time.
I didn't walk past.
The hand knew the way better than I did.
His pen. Chew-marks on the cap.
It doesn't hurt the way it should. It's almost nice.
I miss him. This is it, surely. It has to be.
The hand reaches for what was his. I let it. What's dangerous about grief?
But the mitten's last memory isn't warm. It points.
Outward. Toward the edge of the woods. As if his things still know the way he went.
I miss him, I said. So why does it pull me toward the forest again?