“You heard me.”
“I’m not going to sing for you.”
“Why not? I’m all weak and pitiful from a gunshot wound. It’ll make me feel better.”
“You’re full of crap.”
“Please?”
I sigh, torn between impatience and gratification. I don’t know why I decide to humor him, but I start singing after all.
An old gospel song my mom’s mom used to sing to me as a girl about flying away from this weary, shadowed world into glory.
No particular reason. It’s just the first thing that pops into my mind.
I haven’t sung in years, and it takes a few seconds for my pitch to level out. Then my voice echoes weirdly in the confines of the camper in the middle of the dark, silent night. I’m a soprano, but my voice is full-bodied. I could always sing louder than anyone else.
I temper the volume because I’m weirdly self-conscious. Singing in bed like this in the middle of the night to an audience of only Molly and Micah.
He listens intently. I can sense it even though I can’t see his face. I can actually feel his eyes on me.
I don’t know why my voice cracks slightly on the final lines. As if singing has let loose emotion that I’ve kept trapped inside me for years.
Breaking off the final note abruptly, I clear my voice and shift restlessly. “There.”
“You’re amazin’.”
“I just sang a song.”
“Never heard anythin’ more beautiful in my life.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not exaggeratin’ nothin’. Just about tore my heart right from my body, your singin’ did.”
He’s got a slight Ozark accent normally, but right now it’s a lot stronger than I’ve ever heard it. That detail convinces me he’s telling me the truth.
“Oh. Well.” I have no idea what else to say.
“Sing me another.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
He huffs, although it’s mostly for show. “Please?”
“I said no. Go to sleep. You’re all sick and pitiful after all.”
“I’m not that pitiful.”
It’s hard to read the way the resonance of his final words change, but it makes me flush hot again.
“Go to sleep.”
“Fine. I will if you do too.”
