“No,” he barks. “What else?”
“Can I hold your hand?”
“Is my forearm in danger of being licked?” he asks dryly.
I crack a smile despite myself.
“No promises.”
He gives me his left hand. It isn’t the first time I’ve held it, but this time it feels different. His long fingers are firm and reassuring. It swallows up my palm, making me feel strangely safe.
“Can I sing?”
“Are you any good?”
“No.”
“Well, be gentle, the grenade destroyed my eardrums. I don’t want to permanently lose my hearing.”
A startled laugh escapes me.
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor,” I say. “Figured Knox was the funny one and you were the boring, brooding one.”
Ender frowns. “You think I’m boring?”
My smile drops. Why does he sound genuinely offended?
“Uh, I don’t really know you enough to say,” I explain. “You should ask Knox. He’s your best friend.”
“I’m askingyou.”
“Why does my opinion matter?” I ask. “It’s not like you care what I think.”
“I don’t,” he says gruffly.
He returns his attention to the wound. I wince as the metal shifts inside my flesh as he tries to pry it out. My grip on his hand tightens.
His thumb moves slowly, tracing my knuckles.
“What happened to you singing for me?” he asks.
“I got a little shy,” I admit.
“I won’t judge you, Warrick,” he says, staring at me beneath his lashes. “It’ll be a good distraction.”
“If you insist,” I say.
There was a lullaby my mother used to sing to Mercy and me when we were young, about a lost bluebird looking for its mother. I take a deep breath and start the first chorus. My voice is a little shaky, but Ender is far too focused on picking out the glass to care.
My breath stutters when it finally slips out, and I squeeze his hand tightly.
“Keep singing,” Ender orders.
“You’re not listening!”
“I am,” he says. “You’re singing about some bird.”
“A bluebird,” I correct.
