“. . . do you have a place to go? . . . do you have family nearby?”
Rye stopped suddenly, gripping the back of the couch for support, and his eyes shot up to Jake, who was just setting down both mugs of fresh tea on the table.
I’m Ryan Henry Davis. I was kidnapped when I was eight. I lived with my mom on Sycamore Avenue. I don’t know if... I’m scared to find out if she’s still here. And if she misses me. If she’d want me. I can’t... answer your questions.
He willed Jake to understand him, even though he’d said nothing at all. But Jake just looked at him and gave him a kind smile.
“Here we go. I, uh, hope you like it. If not, I’ve got more eggs and toast.”
“Sycamore.” Rye breathed the word as his stomach lurched again, pain radiating all the way up into his chest this time.
“Hmm? What was that? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear...” Jake seemed to take a cautious step in Rye’s direction, and even though the movement was slow, Rye couldn’t stop himself from flinching hard this time. He scrunched his eyes shut and tried to force the word out again. But it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t do it.Jake’s voice was softer as he said, “Hey, Rye, you’re okay. Here, you can come and sit, if you want.”
He couldn’t move, though. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t speak, and the air turned cold.
No. No, he didn’t want... he didn’t even know.
“You’re okay. Slowly now. Here. Here we go.” Somehow, he was being guided, a large, warm, gentle hand on his arm, under his elbow, supporting him. Soft skin. Not rough. And the kind voice—Jake’s kind voice—continued. “You’ve got it. You’re okay. Sorry, but you looked like you were about to fall, and, well, I’m not sure I’d have been able to help you off the ground like you did for me yesterday.” A light laugh. And more warmth.
Then he was at the table and sitting in his chair, and the hand on his arm disappeared.
“There we go. Better?”
I don’t know.
Small sounds surrounded him. Jake’s footsteps shuffling away. Jake’s chair scooting back. Jake letting out a short, pained breath. And then there was quiet, and he heard the ocean.
“I’m sorry if that was too much with my nephew and everything,” Jake said after another few minutes. “We usually do that a couple of times a month, and my sister, well, she’s quite busy tonight with the election stuff going on. So Phil really needed that. He’s a fun kid. A good kid. Sweet and smart. But I didn’t mean to pressure you into anything, if that... was why...”
Rye frowned and shook his head. That wasn’t why. That wasn’t why. He’d actually had fun playing that game. It had been good. Something... something normal.
“Okay. Uh, good then. I... um...” There was a low hum, and then a sound like Jake had picked up his fork. “Maybe we should just eat then, before it gets cold?”
They should. He should. After all, he’d skipped lunch, and he was hungry.
He forced his eyes open and tried to say yes. Just the one word. Something so, so very simple.
But no words would come.
So instead, he nodded stiffly, and then, keeping his eyes downcast, he picked up his fork and speared a small piece of chicken with a shaky, trembling hand.
Just like everything else Jake had fed him, it tasted amazing. He chewed slowly and swallowed, then he scooped up another bite, this one with rice and carrots and peas and yes, even what looked like a small piece of tomato.
It was also amazing. Because this bite, somehow, reminded him of home. Of his mom. Of his mom sitting at the kitchen table with him, smoothing out the slightly off-white tablecloth she liked to keep draped across its surface, talking to him, asking him how his day went.
And telling him to make sure to eat his peas and carrots.
“Do you like it?” Jake asked, his voice sounding strangely distant against the soft background lull of the ocean waves and the whispering remnants of his mom’s voice in his head.
Rye looked up. And he still couldn’t talk. But he nodded a yes, and that made Jake smile.
“Good. Good, I’m really glad.”
Rye lowered his eyes back to his fork and lifted it to his mouth to take another bite.
Chapter Nineteen
Jake
