Page 48

Walt’s voice echoed like it came from above, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. When Walt spoke out loud, Hollis heard his own mouth speaking, of course, but internally it was all Walt.

He had an accent, but Hollis couldn’t place it.

You focus on the strangest things when time slows for a panic attack.

Every sensation was new and different. Layered in a way that was almost impossible to describe.

He was aware of the scrape of the denim on his legs, the itch of his sweater, the shock of cold as Walt took off Hollis’s old coat and shrugged on his new one. His bones felt a bit long, and his shoulders were tight. His shoes were too light for the weather.

His skin was taut, full to bursting the way it had been during the growth spurt that left Hollis tall enough to duck doorways. Walt was running his tongue over his teeth, blunt blunt blunt. In comparison to the other boy’s, Hollis realized.

Walt was adjusting to his body.

It was a new jolt of horror, but Hollis was already screaming. He couldn’t double scream. He couldn’t even struggle.

He remembered when he had almost thrown up—when it somehow overrode this for a bit—and tried to replicate that sensation. If he remembered how he felt just before, he might be able to wrestle back control.

Hollis strained and twisted.

Walt stopped mid-stride and put Hollis’s foot down.

You need to stop doing that right now or you’re going to give yourself a stroke, he said, very serious. If you’re patient, I’ll teach you how we can share, but you need to calm down first.

Share? Share?!

It’s too late at this point.

Walt continued walking.

Screaming isn’t going to do anything. I’m used to it.