Have him bring me more soup.” As Tobin fans his pants to dry them,
I yell, “Now!”
He backs away like he doesn’t trust me not
to throw the knife when he turns around. That’s not a bad idea,
actually, but my anger’s already passing. He’s just lucky he didn’t
try this with Dylan, that’s all I have to say. When he’s finally
out of sight, I hear him start to run.
Back on the bunk, I sit in the corner again,
my legs to my chest, and clench the knife in a tight fist as I
wait.
* * * *
More footsteps. I don’t bother to look up
until Conlan says, “I hear you tried to kill Tobin.”
“Is that what he’s saying?” I ask.
Conlan carries another tray, slides it through the slot in the
door, more soup. No knife this time, I notice, but I still have the
other one in my hand. I feel like a petulant child when I tell him,
“He started it.”
Conlan only nods. “I know.”
He busies himself with cleaning up the
spilled trays that litter the floor and doesn’t look at me.