Some Quiet Place

jacket.
    Things unraveled quickly. Morgan came in search of me every time she knew I was at her house, and she would scream if anyone tried to take her away. I didn’t care, of course, but Sophia was another story. She watched the two of us with narrow eyes and a pinched mouth. Her thoughts were written in every line of her face, visible in every movement. Mrs. Richardson started calling me when Morgan was in one of her moods. She asked me if I was willing to take over as her babysitter—which earned me the money to buy my truck.
    Then, one day, the phone calls stopped. The invitations halted. And Sophia began to spend her time with other girls at school. She’d finally had enough. I think some part of her hoped I would grovel, fight for our friendship. But, being me, I did the equations. It wouldn’t work. So, since it would be fruitless to pursue anything, I went on my way.
    Mr. Anderson has finally noticed the disturbance in his class and his piercing gaze shoots through Sophia, then me. I scoot down in my seat like a properly chastised student, and with one final glare, Sophia leaves me alone for the rest of the period.
    The day passes quickly, and for a few hours everything is completely ordinary. I sit alone at lunch, I listen closely to the lectures, and I don’t talk to anyone in my classes. It isn’t until I’m back in my truck and heading home that I sense it again. That presence. I actually stop in the middle of the road, tasting it, tilting my head as I flip through my memories for a match to this essence. It’s no one I’ve met before, I realize. Yet there’s something so … oddly familiar about it. How can that be? And it isn’t trying to hide itself from me; it’s as if it’s calling to me, hoping I’ll try to find it. Is it an Emotion?
    But Dad is expecting me home. The cows won’t milk themselves. I also need to make a call to the hospital to see how Maggie is doing—the normal behavior of a friend. Shifting back into first gear, I continue on my way home.
    The presence stays with me until I pull into the driveway; then it leaves, a silent mystery.
    I know it will be back.
    Everyone has a purpose. There are those who are unfortunate enough not to know what that purpose is, and there are those that are bound by it, thrive in it, know nothing else.
    Unlike humanity, Fear and all the rest like him have no governors or presidents or kings. They’re ruled by their own natures, which are hardwired into their every pore, vein, eyelash. And Emotions are not alone in their purpose. There is a design for every single thing. There is a being for Light, Song, Wind, Grass, Life, and Death. Winter, Spring, Fall. The Elements and the Seasons. They are part of our world and apart from it. They exist on another plane, spiritlike creatures that humans can’t hear or see … unless they’re strange, like me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on how many places they can be at once.
    Some of these creatures I’ve met. Most I haven’t. So every time I see an out-of-place being out in the fields, as I do now, I wonder who I’m looking at. It’s dark out, and there’s a thick mist. The figure walks with purpose through the crops, hands outspread. Fog again?
    After a few moments, the stranger in the field vanishes, finished with whatever he or she set out to do. I pull my gaze from the window and try to focus on the conversation. Something about football, I think. Friday night. My brother is home for the weekend, as he usually is; he works at Fowler’s Grocery in town until he goes back to college on Mondays. I’m quiet—I think my parents prefer it this way—and keep my head down, studying the patterns in the flowered tablecloth as I pick at my food. Corn and potatoes and pork. Yellow, white, pink.
    “Liz, you haven’t said a word all night,” my brother says suddenly, and when I look up, his gaze is gentle, encouraging. Even though he probably thinks I’m weird, like the rest of the town, Charles is kind to me.
    Something is off about him tonight, though. I sense it, and I probe Charles’ expression. I suspect it has something to do with school; he told me he’s been having trouble with his classes. I notice the way his hands shake slightly as he lifts his glass, the way his eyes dart to Dad and back to his plate again nervously. Apprehension is behind him, resting his hand on my brother’s shoulder. The Emotion pays me no mind.
    “I have nothing to say, thanks,” I murmur. I’ve