Page 116 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘Nothing,’ he says, frowning to himself.

No one else seems to notice, but it only gets worse for Riley, who starts to get severe headaches. Every day, dozens of new scents present themselves loudly, demanding his attention.

He can smell dust motes.

He can smell them individually.

He can tell which ones are skin.

He can tell whose skin.

‘I think I—I’m sick,’ he tells Troy on a Wednesday before the summer heat hits hard around midday. Troy is cleaning his guns in the kitchen, equipment laid out, cloths, oil. He takes each gun apart like it’s easy.

It took Riley fifteen minutes to work up the courage to tell Troy.

The older man glances at him, scanning Riley. ‘You look fine,’ he says decisively, but then gentles his voice a fraction and says, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m…’ Riley’s mouth goes violently dry, fear choking him. ‘Um.’

‘If something’s wrong, I need to know.’

‘It. I’m.’

‘What?’

He’s terrified.

He can’t tell him.

‘My head h-hurts.’

Troy exhales, relieved. ‘That’s an easy fix. Painkillers are in that drawer there. Go ahead and open it. Under the med-kit. Yeah, that’s it. Bring the bottle here.’ He sets down his cleaning things and pops the lid. ‘Now, you’re almost a teenager so you can have two, OK? Just remember no more’n four a day, split up into twos. Four a day keeps the doctor away.’

He withdraws two small round pills.

‘You… have them?’

‘Speak properly.’

Riley takes a deep breath that always feels like turning back time to try again, be better. ‘Do you take them?’

‘Everyone here does. Go on. You just swallow ‘em. Back of the tongue, sip of water, boom. You’ll feel better in no time.’

Riley hopes he does.

The smells are never-ending.

He can smell the cloth Troy is using, the trace of his own hand on the material staining it like oil. He is sickened by the smell of man-melted metal and the fizzy smack of whatever makes bullets do what they do and a million other things among them, all of which are vile when combined.

He tries to swallow the pills, but his throat closes up right away.

Riley chokes on them while Troy sighs.

‘Here,’ the older man says, taking the soggy pills when Riley spits them out and pulling out two fresh ones. ‘Watch.’ He throws them into the back of his mouth, keeps his head tipped slightly up and drinks water. ‘See?’

Riley tries to recreate it and chokes again.

Troy is frustrated and Riley, despite hating him, wishes this had gone a different way. He rarely ever asks Troy for something.