Chapter 11: Warm Milk

I did not turn around.

"Bathroom," I said. "Couldn't sleep."

"Sure, big guy."

Trenton's hand stayed on my shoulder, heavy and friendly.

Behind the study door, the voices had stopped.

I realized they had stopped a long time ago, and that my father had heard the floor creak, and was sitting in there listening to me breathe.

"Come on," Trenton said. "Let's get you back to bed."

I stood.

My phone was still in my sock, still recording.

I could feel it against my ankle.

I let my brother walk me up the stairs with his arm around my shoulders, the way he had when I was sick at fifteen.

At my door, he handed me the paper cup.

"Both of them," he said.

He watched while I tipped the pills into my mouth.

I put them under my tongue and swallowed nothing.

I drank the milk.

It was warm and tasted of honey, and I made myself finish all of it.

"Good," Trenton said.

He patted my cheek.

"I really am glad you're home, Nolan."

I think he meant it.

That was the worst part.

He shut the door.

A moment later the lock turned from the outside.

I stood in the dark and listened to that small sound, a bolt sliding home.

Five years, and I knew that sound better than I knew my own name.

For one terrible second I was back on the concrete, with a rag in my mouth and my wrists tied, counting the cracks in the ceiling.

I put my hand against the wall.

I breathed in for four.

I breathed out for four.

I spat the pills into my palm and pushed them under the carpet edge.

Then I took the phone out of my sock and stopped the recorder.

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