Page 120 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

The labels gather under umbrellas.

The umbrellas are named.

Organised.

Feelings. Touch. Taste.

He can tell who has had sex with who, some of the men do it together sometimes. It’s not his business. Riley knows almost nothing about sex beyond what Troy gruffly explained unprompted last year during a mortifying exchange when someone tattled on Riley about the mess he made of his sheets. They’ve never spoken of it since, thankfully. Sometimes, Troy will read the pages of the diary he fills about these smells but rarely comments on what he reads.

Riley can tell who has kissed who.

Whose touch lingers.

Who fought.

Whose body has been where.

He can sense hatred and envy without looking.

Jealousy.

Exhaustion.

Secrecy.

Secrets taste like damp earth and busy, bustling rot.

When Troy reads that part, he looks up at Riley.

‘This one,’ he says. ‘What’s it mean?’

‘Secrets.’

‘Explain.’

‘I can tell… taste when someone is… k-keeping—’

‘Speak properly, Riley. You can do it.’

Riley hates when he says that, grips his hands tight and tries again.

‘I can t-tell when someone is keeping secrets from you. Lying.’

Troy blinks. ‘Show me.’

✴

It’s probably the best summer of his life.

There’s fresh, clean air in his room and he sleeps under the raw moonlight no matter how uncomfortable it is. That night air brings him dreams and strength, whispers songs and shows him the younger boy he can see the shape of but not the face.

His brain adjusts to the smells.

It slowly becomes second nature.

And Troy has found a use for Riley.

It makes allies of them.