Page 42 of Silas

Once we reach the entrance, he sets me on my feet in the lobby.

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” says an elderly man in a blue Walmart vest at the entrance. “Sorry.”

Silas halts in place and turns to face the greeter. “Fuck off.”

“Sir, I—”

Silas’s eyes narrow. “That’s why we’re here. To get her some shoes.”

“But sir—”

Silas takes another step, and the greeter gulps audibly. “Yes, sir. Thank you for choosing Walmart.”

Taking my hand, palms clasped, Silas leads me through the bright, airy, cool of the store to the women’s clothing area.

He stops just inside and looks around, then at me. “Whatever you want,” he says, sweeping a hand at me.

I scan the racks and stands and tables full of clothing—a million different styles, colors, shapes, sizes, fabrics…

My chest tightens as if a giant hand is squeezing the air out of my lungs; my vision narrows, darkens, and for a moment, all I want is to be back in my room on the compound, locked in, playing Mama’s guitar.

“Naomi?” Silas’s face hovers in front of me. “Hey. Take a breath, okay?”

I try. I swear I do. But I can’t. I shake my head. Flap my mouth open and closed, the vise now around my temples and lungs at the same time.

“Look at me. Look at my eyes, Naomi.” His voice is low, deep, smooth—soothing. His eyes are cool and calm, the sunlit jade of them cutting through the panic.

“Now, take a deep breath in. Fill your lungs, nice and slow. Count to eight while you inhale.”

I force my lungs to inflate, and immediately cool, welcome oxygen floods my system.

One…

Two…

Three...

Four…

I make it to eight, keeping my eyes on his.

“Great. Now hold it and count to four.”

I hold my filled lungs to the count of four.

“Now exhale for eight.” His hands grasp mine. Place them on his shoulders.

His shoulders are hard as granite, huge and broad. Firm. The feel of them under my hands anchors me.

“Keep breathing just like that. In for eight, hold for four, out for eight, hold out for four, and do it again. Hold onto me. Look at my eyes.” His hands curl around me, clasping me to his solid frame. “Smell me. Look up at the lights. How many lights are there directly above us?”

“F-four.”

“Good. What color is my shirt?”

“White.”

The backs of his fingers trail down my cheek, leaving a blazing path of electric tingles in their wake.