Page 86 of Freeing Hook

She points again at the tile of a woman with cropped hair resting her chin between her thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger, staring up at the sky.

“Think?” I ask, less than confident that’s what she means.

Tink shakes her head.

“Ponder?” I try again.

Tink places her hand over her chest.

I have to hold back the urge to groan. What we need is a tile for “VEX.” “Feeling like you want to think?” I ask.

Tink glares at me, then points to “STUPID.”

“Fine. Pensive, wistful, reflective, ruminative?”

Tink points to the number “ONE” at the top of the board.

“I don’t see how ‘PENSIVE’ is all that functional—”

Tink taps “WANT.”

“Fine.” I scribble PENSIVE onto the tile.

I expect Tink to tire of our task before she does, but she works diligently, scribbling on the blank tiles as I try to figure out what she means. This goes on for hours, and I wear out before she does.

That makes sense. I’m not the one who’s been unable to communicate for who knows how long. Still, I can’t see why, after years of silence, she’d want to communicate “PENSIVE.” It’s not as if it’s a high-frequency word.

Once she’s finished the last tile, I show her the articles and the more abstract prepositions, thinking those will prove more difficult to memorize. There aren’t exactly intuitive images for the words “a,” “the,” and “of.” She’ll just have to memorize what the words look like.

When we’re done, Tink having memorized the articles in a span of seconds, I rest on my heels across from her and scratch the back of my neck.

“I’d like to start over, I think,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m John.” It’s meant to be the offering of a handshake, but Tink either misinterprets the gesture or doesn’t care for the formality, because she tucks a tile into my palm.

It’s the tile for TINK.

When I glance up at her, she’s smiling. But there’s something else too, tears welling at her eyelids. I don’t entirely understand. It’s not as if she’s finally figured out a way to communicate information I didn’t know. But I figure it best not to acknowledge the soft tears.

Besides, they tug at my ribcage, and that’s not exactly productive. Empathy gets you hurt, John.

“Have you always been unable to speak?” I ask. “Verbally, I mean.”

Tink shakes her head.

“Was it illness? A surgery? Apoplexy?” I’m not sure if Tink knows what apoplexy is, but I’ve learned to assume that sheknows more than I think she does unless I want to get called stupid. Or asked if I think she’s stupid. I have yet to figure out a way to differentiate between the two.

Tink bites her lip, and again shakes her head.

“How did it happen?” I ask.

Tink looks at the board. For a moment, I think she’ll reach for one of the tiles, but she doesn’t. She just shrugs.

“We don’t have the words for it?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me this time. I can’t decide if I believe that, or if she just doesn’t want to tell me how she lost her voice. It shouldn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. What matters is finding out what happened to Wendy.

“Did you see what happened to my sister?”

“YES.”

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