Page 78 of Penny for Your Saints

Before I can say anything, Quentin is at my elbow, a crazed look in his eyes. He reaches for the track mouse pad and I'm about to ask what he's doing when I watch him deftly navigate tothe second video in the folder; a grainy security image obviously much older than the other digital video files that surround it.

Something about the look on his face, like a fox with its leg caught in a trap—makes my stomach clutch with panic.

Louise is still face down on the floor when the next video loads. If the date-time stamp in the bottom left hand corner of the video is to be believed, it was taken in March of 1993.

In the center of the frame sit two children in the middle of a brightly colored rug; a boy and a girl. I know instantly that the little girl with long red hair sitting cross-legged in a robin's egg blue hospital nightgown is Louise as a child. It only takes one incredulous second of examining the boy with cherry brown hair beside her, clutching her hand for dear life is a young, frightened Quentin.

"Oh, my God." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Seb stands up, knocking over his chair as a chain of French curses leave his lips and he staggers backward.

Frank says nothing, his elbows balanced on his knees, his hands knit together in a bridge beneath his nose, obscuring the bottom half of his face. Even so, I can see the tendons and his wrists and arms standing out.

"All right, you two!" The sound of the Doctor's voice makes me jump and draws Louise's eyes from the floor to the screen.

She presses up onto her hands and knees, crawling slowly back toward the laptop, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes in the grainy image of herself and Quentin as children.

The pair of them watch, a lucidity sparkling from behind their eyes.

"How are you feeling today, Quentin?" The doctor asks evenly. Quentin, clearly shy, doesn't answer the doctor directly, but rather leans and whispers into Louise's ear—having her relay his message.

"He says he feels a little better, but his tummy still hurts." Louise's small voice carries over the old recording like a ghost from the past.

"And does your tummy feel better or worse when you get to be with Louise?" The doctor asks Quentin again. Once more, Quentin whispers into Louise's ear.

"He says it feels worse when he doesn't get to stay in the room with me. It feels best when we hold hands," Louise chirps quietly before offering Quentin a warm smile.

"That's good, very good. A few more questions and the two of you can go outside for a bit with the other kids. Nobody's contagious any more and one of the nurses brought some fresh sidewalk chalk."

Louise reaches out one hand, smashing it down to the keyboard frantically until the video pauses.

"That's enough! I've had enough!" she shrieks before slamming the laptop shut.

Louise launches from her place on the floor, flying to the front door and slamming it behind her as she disappears into the night.

My first instinct is to rise from the floor and follow her, but Seb grabs me by the arm and stops me before I can get to the door.

"Uh-uh, not right now." He shakes his head and folds me against him in a tight hug. "I know you know she's hurting—I do too, and it kills me, but right now, the best thing we can do is give her a moment to be alone."

Embarrassed, my attention slides to Quentin, who has also been dealt a serious blow.

"Hey Q?" I call him, my voice small as I reach for his rounded shoulder.

He doesn't move, doesn't give any indication that he's heard.

"Hey, Quentin," I try again. This time my fingers falling soft and warm over his shoulder—muscles thrumming beneath a layer of merino wool.

He doesn't say anything, just gives a loud wet sniffle, tears silently streaming down his face.

"You need some space, buddy?" I don't mean for my voice to sound like I'm speaking to a child, but I can't help myself. He feels so delicate, so vulnerable.

I'm already prepared to start moving away at the nod of his head, assuming that he will want his distance from us in this moment. But instead, Quentin mutters only one word. "No," he says softly before tilting his head down toward where I grip his shoulder, his wet cheek making contact with the back of my hand.

All at once, I kneel on the ground and pull him to me. Sébastien joins us, one arm draped over each of our shoulders, his head laid over the top of ours as Quentin cries softly.

Without warning, Frank leaps up from his chair and grabs it by the spindled backrest, letting out a mighty howl of anguish before smashing it to splinters against the cast iron wood stove; the three of us jump at his sudden outburst.

There's no question that tensions are high after the revelations of the last several minutes, but Frank's reaction seems overblown compared to that of Louise and Quentin, who undoubtedly are questioning their very reality at this moment.

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