Some Quiet Place

head. “For now, it’s better you don’t know.”
    His gaze sharpens. “But you might tell me one day.” It isn’t a question.
    It would be wise to crush his hope. It would be sensible to staunch his questions. “Maybe,” I say. You will need that boy in the end.
    “Dad and I worked for hours yesterday, since we can’t afford to get the new parts our harvester needs,” Joshua answers abruptly. “Of course he’s too proud to ask anyone for help.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. He probably realizes that he won’t get any further in his own quest for truths. “The rotations aren’t doing any good. Planting the crops late didn’t change anything. The land is just tired.”
    My stomach growls as he says this, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything today. I forgot to grab breakfast this morning; I slept through the alarm once again—more dreams.
    Courage’s words are pressing in, growing louder and louder each day.
    Joshua hears my stomach and grins, mindless of my inner struggle. “Want half of my sandwich?”
    Oddly enough, his offer gives me that strange sensation again—my nothingness quivering, hardening, fighting against any and all urges to feel something. I wonder what I would be feeling for Joshua at this moment, if I had the ability. Even odder, I don’t have the faintest idea.
    I could help you sleep.
    His voice comes out of nowhere, but it reminds me that Joshua isn’t the only one who’s offered something to me. Fear … why am I thinking of him so often lately?
    As I make an effort not to lose myself in theories, the boy doesn’t wait for me to reply. He bends his head once more, flipping over some newspapers, looking for any stories about me, as I’d instructed him to. He’s genuine in his desire to help me. I’m beginning to realize that Joshua Hayes is a paradox; he’s simple yet complex, direct yet thoughtful, eager yet patient. Just when I believe I have him labeled and put into a box, he says or does something that forces me to reconsider.
    For what seems the hundredth time, I study Joshua’s face, the familiar features. It’s a good way to occupy my mind. I’ve never really stared at him before, noted each and every detail. Behind that long, dark-red hair, his lashes are extensive and gold, his eyes a gentle amber. His nose is long, slightly dusted with freckles. His mouth is generous and naturally upturned at the corners, as if he’s always ready to smile. All in all , I think, he’s quite nice to look at . Beautiful, really. Not in the way the Emotions or the Elements are, but in a real way. I know when I look at him that there’s nothing otherworldly about his loveliness; it’s just him.
    If I were normal, if circumstances were entirely different and beings like Fear had no place in my life, Joshua could be someone to me.
    He glances up, feeling my eyes. He smiles in question. I look down at the paper in front of me, copying him. The nothingness is harder than it’s ever been. The sensation in my stomach is almost painful now, and I grimace in response.
    “Are you all right?” Joshua asks.
    I nod quickly, and as if on cue, the bell rings above. I stand, almost tipping over the chair in my haste. Clumsiness is unlike me.
    “Elizabeth?” Joshua is worried now. He follows, leaving our mess behind. Mrs. Marble won’t be happy with either of us when she discovers the papers littering the table in the back. I don’t let Joshua catch up; I’m much faster, and it’s all too easy to dart out the door and leave him. But even when I’ve disappeared from his sight, he calls my name.
    “I miss you. This place is hell on earth. Have you been busy over in good ol’ Edson?”
    I hold the phone close to my ear, straining to catch Maggie’s faint rasp. I put a note of cheer into my voice. “Yeah, busy with all the boring stuff. Chores, homework. You’re not missing out on anything.”
    She laughs, but there’s not a drop of mirth in the sound. She’s gotten worse, not just in the sickness but in her spirit. “Wrong, Liz. I’m missing out on life.”
    Tim’s loud whistling disturbs the silence, and I lean backward to see out the window. The corn stalks crackle as he shoves them aside. Mom’s making supper and Charles will be home soon. “Maggie, I have to go.”
    She doesn’t respond for a few seconds and I stare at the wall, seeing her face drawn on the plaster: thin, pale, hopeless. “I’m going to visit again soon,” I add, knowing the words are