Some Quiet Place

consider this. But then there is Courage, his dark loveliness before me, solemn and chilling in his truth: You will need that boy in the end.
    I draw.
    “It’s going to storm,” Joshua murmurs. He stands by my window, staring out at the fields. Gray skies and strong winds frown and swirl on the other side of the glass. The paintbrush drips in Joshua’s hand, green paint staining the floor, but I don’t mention it.
    “You should leave soon,” I say, stepping away from the wall to eye it. I’ve drawn trees on two of the walls, a small stone house and the edge of a cliff on a third, and on the fourth …
    “What’s that?” Joshua appears beside me, frowning at the scene before us. When I don’t answer, he steps carefully around my bed. The pencil markings hold all his attention. “It’s sad. Beautiful, but I don’t think I’d want to fall asleep every night with that looking over me.”
    I reach out to touch the boy at the same time Joshua does. Our hands brush, and he jumps. Neither of us move. I observe the girl’s silent scream for the millionth time.
    “Where did you come up with this?” Joshua asks, his voice husky. I don’t answer, preoccupied with the curve of the girl’s cheek, the way her fingers curl over the boy’s shoulder.
    Where is she?
    You killed me .
    Joshua fidgets—his thumb taps his thigh and his foot makes a beat on the floor—proving my theory that he can’t stand still for even a moment. “I didn’t know you could draw so well,” he adds. Again I say nothing. “Elizabeth?” He sounds worried now; I’ve been silent too long.
    “I’m not that good. And I made this up,” I reply. I toss my pencil on the bed, glancing out the window, where rain has begun to patter against the pane. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll walk you out to your car.”
    He follows me mutely. So strange. I’m used to demanding questions, impossible expectations. I’ve never known anyone like him. But when we’re going down the stairs, his silence suddenly makes sense. Sorrow stands in the shadows, waiting for Joshua. The boy shudders when Sorrow reaches out, as if he can sense the Emotion’s presence. My mural must have spurred it on—I can guess what sprang to Joshua’s mind, to make Sorrow pay a visit.
    Mom isn’t in the kitchen on our way out the door. The house is holding its breath. I don’t think Joshua is aware of much else besides his soundless pain. The screen door begins to close, but Joshua turns back quickly, catching it before it slams. Sorrow looks at me while Joshua is distracted, those constant tears streaking down his white, white cheek. His black hair thrashes in the wind and his essence clashes against me. I see death, sobs, emptiness.
    “Are you all right?” Joshua’s staring at me. I keep walking, gravel crunching beneath my feet. Pressure pounds on all sides; the storm is approaching fast.
    When we reach Joshua’s car, I ask him, “What made you think of your mother?” A leaf blows and tangles in my ponytail. I pull it out and hold it by its stem.
    Joshua toys with his keys, flipping them back and forth, pursing his lips. They jangle and the silver flashes. “How did you know I was thinking about her?”
    I shrug. “A guess.”
    He scowls. Roughly, he shoves those bangs out of the way to glare at me. Sorrow remains close by, but Anger joins us. He says nothing, just grasps Joshua’s shoulder and pointedly ignores me. “You know what I realized?” Joshua snaps. “You lie a lot, Elizabeth. I’m not stupid.”
    “What do you think I’m lying about?”
    He makes an abrupt gesture toward the house, my room. “You didn’t make that drawing up. No one can make up that kind of pain. It was real, even if I don’t know what it’s all about.”
    Clouds gather above us, and thunder rumbles, warning us that it’s coming. There’s just a light sprinkle now, but I know it’ll get worse. The leaf is delicate in my fingers. Joshua doesn’t even notice the drizzle. He keeps glaring at me, waiting for me to speak.
    Finally I just shrug again, as hollow inside as ever. “You want the truth? Fine. I don’t know why I drew that. I dream about it. But I’m not like you; I’m not sad, or suffering. I don’t feel anything.”
    His eyes become dark shades of disappointment; he thinks I’m still lying. It’s the way humanity is; give them what they want, and it turns out it’s not what they wanted after all.
    “Whoever that person is,” Joshua says, his