The Little Town of Lillston

KaLl

"This is your fault!"

"I don't think-"

"You're the principal! It's in your job description to provide a safe place for my son!"

"He ran away!"

"Don't you dare talk about my son when he nearly died on your grounds!"

"Mrs. Cord, I feel-"

"It's Cordeaux!"

"Mrs. Cordeaux, I feel it is inappropriate for you to speak to me like this when your son was clearly no longer under my responsibility when he was found."

"We just aren't sure how this much ink could have gotten into his bloodstream. It would've been better if it weren't colored at all."

"But he won't... it can't..."

"No, no."

"He also has some sort of infection on his left ankle that has spread. We-"

"Give him antibiotics. Did you run it in a lab? That's not a normal infection, even my wife would know that."

"Louis!"

"Sorry, sweetie."

"Why did you move here?"

"It was for my job."

"And you have no enemies that may want... revenge? No one back in France?"

"Of course not!"

"This is all my fault."

"What, this? No it isn't, dear. We don't know who's to blame."

Silence. Overwhelming silence. It was the sort of silence that made Bryson uncomfortable, yet wanting more.

"Please, just go take the kids and get some food."

"You go, sweetie. You've been here all night. It's my turn."

"I'll... I'll hurry."

Bryson's eyes opened automatically, though he did not want them to. Wherever he was, it was blurry. He was in a blurry mesh of light. He blinked a couple of times, and the blurriness sharpened. There was a fluorescent light above him. It reminded him of something; he didn't know what. The walls were painted white with a teal stripe in the middle, and there were four seats in the room, one of which was occupied by his father, who had his head in his hands. His father should be at work.

"Dad?" said Bryson, though his voice sounded weird to him. There were two thin blankets over him and a tube running into his arm. He was being stabbed. That reminded him of something.

His father slid to his bedside and knelt down, his face a mix of worry and relief. "Bryson!" He looked as though he wanted to hug Bryson; to squeeze him until he passed out.

There was a faint hum in the room. It all came back to him just like that: the creepy storage shed near the football field, the pictures of boys, the stickman, the snake, the pencil... a chill ran down Bryson's spine. He looked at his father, but could muster no words to speak. He wished he could read minds. He could tell his father was worried, but Bryson wondered if he had put on that mask of worry to cover the shame he must feel toward his son. Tears swelled in Bryson's eyes, and he didn't mind. He welcomed them. He deserved the humiliation, and he deserved the hot sting of the tears on his face.

His father, too, had tears in his eyes. "I... How're you feeling?"

"I'm sorry," Bryson blurted, though it came out as a whisper.