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but prices and nosy neighbors. I don’t want to wake up in my bed again, alone, thinking about I have laid there since I was a child. I do not want to roll over to touch the dirty window, reminded of Eliot’s glass eyes. “Seriously, what time is it?” he asks again. “Early.” “How early?” “If you want to leave that badly, you can walk.” Eliot purses his lips and plays with the grass in his hair. He plays with the leaves of weeds. The grass shuffles behind us. “Oh my god,” Eliot still whispers. “Someone’s coming. We should leave. Do you hear it?” “It’s the wind,” I say, not because I know this, but because I do not want to feel his fear. He stares at me with the ignorance that is so often convenient for sixteen year-old boys. He gathers his clothing and stuffs them in the sleeping bag, ready to jump into them. I want to panic with him, but I can only think about the staying power of that look of panic. It has been in his face since I first put my hand on his shoulder. Behind him, small trees part and sway. A figure is making its way through the shade. I am ready to look a man in the eye and explain nothing. “I hear shoes. Listen, those are shoes,” Eliot whispers. But they are not shoes. They are massive steps wading through the damp ground. 63

2009-10 Parallax  

Idyllwild Arts Academy Student Literature/Art Magazine 2009-10