Malorie(19)

She doesn’t respond with words. Only a serious look that’s meant to underscore the horrors of the world they are about to enter. In this moment, she looks like Malorie to Tom, despite not being related by blood.

“I’m sufficiently scared,” Tom says. He’s on his knees by his bunk, eyeing the many inventions he’s kept under his bed. One is something close to the viewfinders people once viewed eclipses through. It’s not lost on him that the census papers listed a similar method as being an eventual cause of madness. He can’t help but wonder what else he’s been proud of that won’t work. But he doesn’t let these thoughts linger. He moves what’s left of the office’s two-way mirror out of the way and reaches for more.

“She’s going to need our ears in a big way,” Olympia says.

“I know.”

“And she’s gonna need us in other ways, too.”

Tom doesn’t look at her when he responds.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means she’s gotta be feeling a lot.”

“Maybe you read too many books, Olympia.”

“Hey, I’m serious.”

“Feelings? You really think Mom has those kinds of feelings? All she cares about is the blindfold.”

He lifts a helmet from the floor. The visor is supposed to close over the eyes when he presses the line switch. But it doesn’t work right now.

“Are you kidding me?” Olympia asks. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“She lives entirely by rules,” Tom says. “There’s not much room for invention in there.”

“She lives by the blindfold, yes,” Olympia says. “And so do we.”

“Do we?” Now he does turn to face her. “We’ve grown up in this world, Olympia. Don’t you think we know it better than she does?”

Olympia’s cheeks redden the way they do when he exacerbates her.

“Tom. Listen to me. Today isn’t the day to make a stand. She’s scared to death as it is. We’ve got thirty miles to walk. Do you have any idea how far that is?”

“We’re more than that from the school for the blind. We’ve done it before. We were fine.”

“And blindfolded.”

Tom looks back to his inventions. A Hula-Hoop that is to be worn like a belt so that the hoop touches anything before the body does. The plastic tubes he’d fashioned to it hang loosely.

“Right,” Tom says, because it’s best not to argue with Olympia for too long. When she gets going, she’s hard to stop. “What are you bringing?”

“Clothes. Tools. Exactly what Mom told us to bring.”

Tom smiles.

“But not only what Mom said. What else?”

“Nothing.”

But she is. He can tell. Olympia keeps secrets, too.

“You’re bringing books, aren’t you?”

“Am not.”

“Olympia…”

Tom gets up and crosses the cabin. He catches her just as she tries to slide a handful of books beneath her bunk.

“You are!” he says. “And so what’s the difference between you bringing something of your own and me doing the same?”

“Stop it, Tom.”

“Well?”

“Because the things I like don’t put us in danger. Okay?”

This hurts. This belittles everything Tom is passionate about.

“Okay,” he says. “Fuck you.”

“Tom!”

He crosses the cabin again and gets on his knees by his bed. He reaches under.

“If you can bring books you’ve already read, if you can spend your precious space on that, then I can bring what I want, too.”

“I didn’t exactly say you couldn’t.”

“You thought it.”

Then he finds it. Deep under his bed. His handmade glasses.

Malorie won’t know they’re in his bag unless she checks. And if she does, he’ll fight for them.

“I’m scared,” Olympia says.

Tom, feeling emboldened, turns to her again.

“We’ve lived with them our whole lives.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But they’ve gotten worse.”

“Have they?” But Tom knows this, too.

“A lot more of them now,” Olympia says.

“Well, stop it. And don’t say that kind of thing in front of Mom. If you do she’s gonna get even harder on us.”

“We’ve never ridden a train,” Olympia says.

“No. So?”

“I’ve read about them. They’re huge. They carry a lot of people. A lot could go wrong.”

“Mom wouldn’t even consider it if it was dangerous.”

“She might,” Olympia says. “For her parents.”

In the distance, the lodge door opens and closes again.

“Do you think they’re alive?” Tom asks.

They search each other’s faces for answers. Malorie’s boots flatten distant grass, loud enough for the two to hear, them alone.

“I want them to be,” Olympia says, “but I don’t think they are.”

“Olympia…”