Page 15 of The Quiet Tenant

“Ready now?”

You nod. He guides you to the door. No time to say goodbye. Just grab at whatever memories you can, days meshing into one another, five years turning into mud. One long stretch of the shed. A place of despair, of devastation, but in the end, it became what you knew.

Here, you learned how to survive. This new house he’s taking you to, it’s full of uncertainty, the possibility of a mistake lurking in every corner.

He stops you once you reach the door. There’s a glimmer of metal, something cold and hard against your wrist. Handcuffs. He secures one end around you, loops the other around his own arm.

“Let’s move.”

His free hand reaches up to the deadbolt. He brings his face close to yours.

“Don’t try anything outside. I mean it. If you run or scream—if you do anything other than walk with me to the car, there will be consequences.”

He lets go of the deadbolt, wraps his hand around the back of your head, and makes you look down. The gun. Hanging at his hip in a holster.

“I understand,” you say.

He releases your head. There’s a click and a tug, and—it’s toosudden, over before you can welcome it—the miracle of wind on your face.

“Come on.”

He pulls you forward. You take your first step, then a second one. You are outside. Standing up and breathing. Strands of your hair graze against your cheeks. So much happening, nature demanding to be heard, felt. The whirl of the wind against tree leaves, soil swarming underneath your bare feet. Insects buzzing and twigs creaking. The wetness of dew on your ankles.

Another tug. You are marching toward his parked truck. For the second time ever, you see the outside of the shed: vertical slats painted gray, white trim around the door. Well maintained and orderly. He’s not a man who lets weeds grow on his property, or one for change. If someone saw it, they would never have suspected.

On your left, if you squint, you can make out the distant contours of the house. Tall, wide, empty. A house where, you imagine, a family was once happy, light glowing from the ceilings, laughs echoing down hallways, bouncing off shiny appliances. Now the windows are dark, the door shut. Memories gone. Scorched earth, a collective life erased from its walls.

Onward you go. A busy, eager man rushing you to your destination. Tonight is not for you. None of this is for you.

Above you, you know, is the sky. Maybe stars. Maybe the moon.

You have to look.

It could cost you a lot, craning your neck up to take a peek. He wouldn’t like it. But it’s been five years, and if it’s going to happen, it has to be now.

He’s in front of you, head bent down, eyes on his feet. Wouldn’t want to stumble. The last thing this man wants to do is fall.

You keep up with his cadence, careful not to fall behind, and—slowly, like someone stepping on the wobbly end of a suspended bridge—tilt your head back.

It’s here, like it’s been waiting for you. A black sky and dozens of stars. You keep marching, one step after another, as you let the sky drink you in. You and the darkness. You, the bottomless ocean, and the promise of tiny icebergs speckled all around. You, black ink, brought to life by glimmers of white paint.

There is something else. A tug in your chest, a devastating bitterness. You, and all the people gazing up at the same sky as you. Women like you and children like you and men like you and old people like you and babies like you and pets like you.

This is what the sky tells you: you used to have people. You had a mother and a father and a brother. You had a roommate. You had a blood family and a chosen family. People you went to concerts with, people you met for drinks. People you shared food with. People who held you in their arms, lifted you up to the world.

You went searching for it, and now you have it. A silent communion tearing you apart.

A pinch in your calves. Something rising from the depths of you. You have to find them again, the people he took you from. One day, you will have to run to them.

“What are you doing?”

He has stopped and turned around. He’s looking at you looking at the sky. Your neck snaps back to its natural angle.

“Nothing,” you tell him. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head and pulls you forward.

The sky has unnerved you. You want to scream and claw at your chest and run, run, run, even though you know, you damn well know, it would be the end of you.

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