Page 115 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

He dreams of her and another girl whose hair is jet black.

They’re in the dark, whispering.

One day he says to Zachary, ‘What do you dream of?’

‘Haven’t dreamed for years, not since I left home.’

‘Where is h-home?’

‘Why?’

Riley shrugs. ‘Do you miss it?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Is this… my home?’

‘Sure is.’

‘I was born here?’

‘Where you’re born isn’t always home. Finish this page so I can go.’

Riley stares out of his bedroom window that night.

He sees weeds, thorns, rocks, and trash. The trees are thick and dark with their pointy tops that sway in the wind. Riley’s window is only one floor up, but he likes to imagine beyond the trees, there are lights, buildings, other children, animals, maybe a fairground like the one he saw in the book. A big, beautiful wheel made to be ridden slowly, sitting side by side and sharing popcorn while deciding which rides to go on next.

Rides.

Riley wants to know how that feels.

He’s never been on a swing or a slide. His earliest memory is of heavy snow slowly burning his feet and then Troy chasing him down. Troy says he always runs, and Riley wants to. His muscles yearn to stretch and push. His lungs itch to burn under new strain.

The trees are high but not high enough to block out the moon when she finally peeks over the points. Riley presses himself against the glass too hard. There’s a crack in the corner. The glass gives a crunchy whine until a piece pops free and new cracks spread up, but it doesn’t shatter entirely. Riley lowers himself to taste the gifted air of the night, eyes closed in relief.

He breathes deep.

Night air.

He falls asleep on the windowsill, sleeps better than he ever has and manages to keep the broken window a secret for that entire summer.

✴

Something new is happening.

Riley tells no one, not even Zachary, who he’s still unsure if he can trust.

But now that he sleeps on his sill, drinking in the clean air, unfiltered moonlight on his skin, new things are blossoming like the determined flowers that grow where they’re not meant to.

The first thing he notices is that his sense of smell has sharpened enormously. He’s smelling red rot of earth veins in the pipes, later learns that it’s rust. His nose pulls him towards the bitter sting of false flowers and later learns that it’s a new soap someone is using. He knows it’ll rain hours before the first droplet touches glass because he tastes greeny grey sulk.

Riley can smell what food they’re making for dinner in the morning. Can tell what meat they’re using, what vegetables. He smells fermented fruits made to burn tongues on the breath of men who work the night shifts.

Only once does he ask Zachary, ‘Do you smell that?’

The older man looks around, sniffing. ‘Smell what?’

Riley clears his throat, a nervous habit, and tries to think how to say, damp salt left to dry in shades of bruise grey, because what he’s actually smelling is sweat. Zachary’s sweat. The older man never smelled like this before. Everyone here is clean, neatly shaven and in good shape. The men who work for Troy use showers that Riley’s not allowed near.