Rye flipped through to page fifty-two of the book—that was the beginning of the few pages on yellow warblers—and he stared at the colorful photograph on the page. The bird lookedexactlylike the ones he’d seen that morning. Bright yellow with some darker shading over its back and wings. A tiny bird, similar in size to the sparrows his mom had identified for him. He traced around the outline of the bird’s wings, wondering what it might be like to be able to fly.
Then he started slowly reading the page for the third time.
He could sort of hear Jake’s voice as he read, especially any time he had trouble remembering what a word was or meant. Jake had been so patient with him earlier, after they’d gotten back from town. They’d sat together on the couch,and Rye had done his best to read in his head. But so many of the words had been completely unfamiliar, and he’d struggled with either the meaning or with understanding what the word might sound like. And when he’d looked up at Jake and pointed to the word on the page, Jake had read the word for him and told him the definition. Every time and without ever getting upset or frustrated or making him feel bad about it.
It had helped a little, even though Rye still felt... stupid. A stupid child, who couldn’t even read. No, an adult. A stupidadultwho couldn’t read and didn’t know what the wordshabitatandtemperateandfledglingmeant. That was even worse.
He closed his eyes and tried his best to hear Jake’s voice, not the voice in his head—which was usually some awful combination of the man’s voice and his own. Jake’s voice was much nicer to him, much easier to listen to. More...temperate.
The corners of Rye’s mouth twitched up into a tiny smile, though he shook his head at himself. The word probably didn’t really work that way anyway.
There was a light knock at the door then, and Rye flinched slightly at the noise as he lifted his eyes. Aunt Tanya stood in the doorway, a white apron tied around her waist and her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She smiled and tipped her head toward his book.
“Still reading, huh?”
His shoulders tightened, and he forced a nod.
Aunt Tanya stepped into the room a bit, and Rye absolutely hated that his heart sped up uncomfortably. He hated it. His aunt was so nice and kind, and he knew her now. He didn’t really remember her from before, but he’d known her for two weeks now, and she’d been nothing but sweet to him. Yet when she took another step forward, his fingers gripped the edges of his book tighter, and he wished he could ask her to stop. Back up. Please... leave.
He said nothing.
“So, dinner’ll be ready in about an hour.” Aunt Tanya reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone as though to double-check the time. “Your mom should be home about then, too.”
Rye nodded again and swallowed hard. And he hated how his stomach lurched when Aunt Tanya moved the rest of the way across the room and sat slowly on the edge of his bed. He pushed his back against the wall.
Please leave.
“I’m making chicken potpie. You used to love it.”
I don’t remember that.
“Did you want to come out and help me? It’s not too difficult.”
He scrunched his eyes closed and shook his head just once.
“Okay, that’s okay. Just thought I’d check.” Her voice was soft and kind, which just made Rye even more upset with himself when the words echoed in his head again.
Please leave.
He didn’t open his eyes, but he felt the bed shift as she stood up.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay, hun?”
Another forced nod, this one quick and short, and then she was gone, and he was alone once more.
Rye let out the breath he’d been holding and looked back down at the book in his lap. It was... irrational. Another new word he’d learned recently. It meant that it didn’t really make sense—his reaction to Aunt Tanya. It made even less sense than his reaction to Uncle Jon, because at least that he could explain to himself in his head. Uncle Jon was a man, and his voice wasn’t soft like Jake’s. And he was tall and strong and older, with gray hair and no beard, like the man...
Uncle Jonwasnice, though, just like Aunt Tanya. They both cared about him a lot, and he knew that and could tell that every time they talked to him. Yet as much as he tried, he couldn’t seem to get himself to be comfortable around either of them.
Maybe it didn’t help that they both liked to try to ask him questions all the time. Questions that he couldn’t answer. Questions that made his whole body freeze up and his breathing fail and his heart do really weird, painful things in his chest.
They just wanted to help. Like the police officers and detectives who were always coming around and asking him things. They all just wanted to help.
But Rye couldn’t answer. He usually couldn’t even nod or shake his head when they started asking him certain questions. He couldn’t write things down either; they’d tried that once or twice. He’d practice writing things, like his name and what day of the week it was. He’d even started copying sentences from the magazines he liked to look at and try to read. But it was the same as trying to talk—he’d freeze up and start to feel icky as soon as the questions got... invasive or related at all to the time he’d spent... away.
He blinked several times, forcing back tears that wanted to fall, and he tried to start over on the sentence he’d been reading before Aunt Tanya had come in.
The yellow warbler’s habitat spans most of the North American continent.
