Scarecrow

Okafor set the singing for the dawn after next.

”One day,” she said. At the foot of the steps of Scarecrow. After the count. ”One full day. Nobody sings to anything. Nobody holds anything. Nobody crosses anything.” She looked at all of us. ”Sleep. Eat. Sit with your children.” She tucked her slate under her arm. ”The day after, we sing to every world the Sorn hold. All at once. And nobody knows what happens after that. Not me. Not Dask. Not the queens.”

She went up the steps.

At the top she stopped. And didn’t turn round.

”Say whatever you’d like to say,” she said. ”Tomorrow. To whoever you’d like to say it to.” A pause. ”That’s an order. The only one I’m giving.”

I didn’t sleep that night either.

Not because of the noise. I’d learned to listen to one thing. I listened to Kwame, between us, with his hand open on the blanket. And the rest waited.

I didn’t sleep because I was thinking about what Okafor said.

Say whatever you’d like to say.

I hear everyone now.

That’s the thing. That’s what I lay there thinking about, in the dark, with my son’s breathing in my ears. I hear every silver on Avalon. Every queen. Every child. I hear Mother’s silver, fine and finished, branching clean. I hear Genny’s, and Garnet’s, the way they’ve grown into each other so you can’t always tell where one stops. I hear Luna’s cold and Sera’s heat and Risa’s storm and Hana’s water, which isn’t water any more, which is something smaller. I hear Dory holding, every night, even asleep. I hear Ash’s branches and Trevor’s frost and small Sigmund’s spark and Efua’s cups and Kwame’s rain.

I hear all of them.

And none of them can hear me.

Not the way I hear them. They don’t know. They don’t know that I lie awake listening to their silver hum and grow and change. They don’t know what I hear in it.

They only know what I say.

And I don’t say very much.

Father never said much either.

I was thinking about that too. In the dark. Father, in the field, with the filter waking at five and the wheat a few yards a day out of the ash. Father at the forge. Father with his hand on my shoulder, showing me how steel wants to be shaped. He didn’t say much. He did things. He made a filter that never broke and a scarecrow that stood in the field with its arms out.

I always knew he loved us. I knew it the way you know the ground’s under you.

But I couldn’t remember him ever saying it.

Not once.

And I didn’t know, lying there, if that was because he never had, or because I’d forgotten. And there was nobody I could ask.

Except Mother.

She was in the kitchen at five.

The way she always was. Before anyone. With the kettle on and the lamp low and her hands perfectly still on the table in front of her. She looked up when I came in.

”You didn’t sleep,” she said.

”No.”

”Sit down.”

I sat down. Across from her. At the kitchen table in the crooked house, which was too small, which Luna had redrawn eleven times, which had DORY—5 written on the wall beside it in very large letters in ink.

”Did Father ever say it?” I said.

Mother looked at me.

”Say what?”

”That he loved us,” I said. ”Out loud. I can’t remember him saying it. I’ve been lying awake trying.”

Mother didn’t answer for a long time.

Then she got up. And poured the tea. Two cups. Very steady. And put one in front of me. And sat back down.

”Every night,” she said.

”Every night,” said Mother. ”After you were asleep. He’d go into your room. And stand there. And say it.” She turned her cup in her hands. ”I used to hear him from the kitchen. I love you, Lucas. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry I was short with you at the forge. Or whatever it was that day.” She was quiet. ”And then the girls, when they came. He’d stand between their cots.”

”He never said it when I was awake.”

”No,” said Mother. ”He couldn’t. He used to say the words got stuck. Like a filter with ash in it.” She looked at her hands. ”He said it every night anyway. To all of you. Asleep. So that it was said.”

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Mother reached across the table. And put her hand flat on mine.

”I don’t know if you heard it,” she said. ”I used to hope you did. Somewhere. In your sleep.” She looked at me. ”You’ve got his eyes, Lucas. His hands. His forge.” A pause. ”You don’t have to have his words stuck too.”

So I said it.

There. At the kitchen table. At five in the morning. With the tea going cold.

”I love you,” I said. ”I’m proud of you. I watched you lift your hands off a blanket a door a morning when nobody knew if you’d ever get up again. And then lift a marsh. And then two hundred and forty children on a porch.” I didn’t look away. ”You held the moss world for nine hours without letting go. You were frightened the whole time and you did it anyway. Father would have—” I stopped. ”I’m proud of you. That’s all. I wanted it said. Out loud. While you’re awake.”

Mother didn’t move for a long time.

Then she put her other hand over her mouth.

And cried. Not much. Not loudly. The way she’d cried on the floor by the lift doors, a long time ago. With her shoulders very still.

”Your father,” she said at last, through her fingers, ”would be so cross with you.”

”Why?”

”Because you did it first,” said Mother. ”On your first try. And he never managed it once.”

I went to find Genny.

She was in the long room. Of course she was. On the floor. In front of Garnet’s chalk wheel. Not singing. Okafor had said no singing. Just sitting there. With her hand flat on the boards beside the slivers. Listening to them hum.

She looked up when I came in.

”Okafor said nobody’s to do anything,” she said.

”I know.”

”I’m not doing anything. I’m sitting.”

”I know.”

Genny looked at me for a long time. With her square notebook on her knee and her pen behind her ear.

”You’ve got the face,” she said.

”What face?”

”Luna says you’ve got a face. When something’s changed in you.” She frowned. ”You’ve got it now.”

I sat down on the floor beside her. In front of the wall. The way she’d sat across from Ruth in the long room, a long time ago, at the same height.

”Do you remember the roof stairs?” I said. ”In the penthouse. The morning I left.”

”You promised,” said Genny. ”Never to lie to me. Not even to be kind.” She touched the notebook on her knee. ”It’s in notebook sixteen. Witnessed. G. Dask.”

”I’ve never broken it.”

”I know you haven’t. I’d have noticed.”

”Then this is true,” I said. ”And you have to believe it, because I’ve never lied to you.”

Genny went very still.

”I’m proud of you,” I said. ”More than anyone. You sang down three hundred slivers at Halden. You found Tally’s queen in sixty-one pieces on a floor. You stood on the moss for ten hours and sang towers into moss. You found out the queens could be sung back from what their children remember.” I looked at the wall. At the chalk wheel. At the names. ”You’re the person on Avalon who asks. Everyone else changes things. You ask. And everything you ask tells you the truth.”

Genny didn’t say anything.

”And I love you,” I said. ”I should have said it on the roof stairs. I didn’t know how. I’m saying it now.”

Genny looked at me for a very long time.

Then she took the pen from behind her ear. And opened the notebook. Not to a new page. To the back. The inside of the back cover. Where there was something already written, very small, in her own hand, a long time ago. I couldn’t read it.

She wrote under it.

Then she closed the notebook.

”What did you write?”

”Witnessed,” said Genny. ”G. Dask.” She looked at me. ”So it’s counted.”

And then she put her face against my shoulder, very suddenly, and stayed there. And didn’t cry. She never cried. She said so afterward, and nobody believed her.

Garnet was on the roof of Father’s house.

The copy. At the end of the street. With her drawing board on her knees and the old brown dog asleep on the ridge beside her, and the field below with the scarecrow standing at the edge of it with its arms out and Mother’s scarf at its neck, faded nearly white.

I flew up.

She didn’t look round. ”Okafor said no flying.”

”Okafor said no crossing.”

”Same thing,” said Garnet. ”To Okafor.” She kept drawing.

I sat down on the ridge beside her. And looked at what she was drawing.

It was everyone.

On the porch. All of them. Mother in Father’s chair. Luna at the kitchen window. Sera on the steps with Ash. Risa with small Sigmund and a cloud over them. Hana in the big chair with the twins. Dory at the bottom with Pebble. Trevor on a blanket with frost spreading round him. Genny on the rail. And on the end of the rail, Tally, and Reed, and Moon.

And one empty space. Beside Father’s chair.

”That’s you,” said Garnet. ”You’re never on the porch when I draw it. You’re always somewhere else. Flying. Or folding something.” She didn’t look up. ”So I leave a space.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then I unwound the scarf from round my neck. Her scarf. The grey one. Lumpy where her rows began. That she’d knitted until four-twenty in the morning, a long time ago, with Miss Pell sitting by, not allowed to help.

I held it out.

”Do you know how many places this has been?” I said.

Garnet looked at it.

”Every crossing,” I said. ”Every world. The forge, when Dot took it off the hook and wrapped it round me because I was bleeding. The ring. The halls. The ash at New Halcyon. Under the ice.” I put it in her lap. ”I’ve never taken it off. Not once. Not since the lift doors.”

”It’s lumpy,” said Garnet. Very quietly.

”It’s the best thing anyone ever made me,” I said. ”And you made it when you were very small and couldn’t knit, and did it anyway, because you wanted me to have something.” I looked at her. ”That’s what you do. You make things when you don’t know how. The towers on the moss world. The heavy young in Bram’s trench. Every housing. You didn’t know how. You did it anyway.”

Garnet’s pencil had stopped.

”I love you,” I said. ”I’m proud of you. I’m sorry I’m never on the porch.”

Garnet looked down at the scarf in her lap for a long time.

Then she picked it up. And wound it back round my neck. Three times. The way she’d wound it the first time, at the lift doors. With the lumpy part at the front.

”You can be on the porch tonight,” she said. ”And I’ll draw you in.”

”All right.”

”And you have to sit still,” said Garnet. ”For an hour. While I do it. You’re very bad at sitting still.”

”I’ll try.”

”Don’t try,” said Garnet. Exactly like Mother. ”Sit.”

Luna was at the map table.

Of course she was. With the big map on the wall and Garnet’s small ones on the table and her notebook open in front of her. She wasn’t doing anything. Okafor had said not to. She was just sitting there, looking at the maps, with her pen in her hand and her hair down.

”You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I said.

”So are you.”

I sat down across from her. She looked at me over the maps.

”You’ve got the face,” she said.

”Everyone keeps saying that.”

”Because you’ve got it.” She put her pen down. ”What is it?”

I told her.

Not everything. Not about Father. Just this.

”Every plan,” I said. ”Every crossing. Every time anything has ever worked, since the canyon. The first queen’s terms. The halls, drawn from Reed’s hands over nine nights. Two worlds at once. The ice, and the moss, and the voice telling me to wait one more minute under the ring when I’d have gone out and ruined everything.” I looked at her. ”You. Every time. Across this table. In your father’s voice.”

Luna didn’t say anything.

”I’ve never told you,” I said. ”That it’s you. That everything I do works because you’ve already worked out where I need to be standing when I do it.” I put my hand on the map. ”You’re the reason we’re still here. I love you. I’m proud of you. And I don’t say it, and I should.”

Luna looked at me for a long time.

Then she picked up her pen. And opened her notebook. To a page near the back. Where she’d written, a month ago, Lucas. Listening.

And under it, she wrote: Lucas. Said it.

And the date.

”For Ruth,” she said. Her voice wasn’t quite steady. ”She’ll want it in the book.”

”Will she?”

”No,” said Luna. ”But I do.”

Sera was at the forge.

Not working. Sitting on the anvil. With Ash beside her, on an upturned bucket, explaining something to the old brown dog, which had followed me down from Father’s roof and lain down at Ash’s feet.

Sera put her hand flat on my chest when I came in. Testing it. The way she always did.

”You’re warm,” she said.

”I’m always warm.”

”No,” said Sera. ”You’ve been hot. For a month. Like a forge with the doors shut.” She kept her hand there. ”This is warm. This is different.” She frowned. ”What’s happened?”

I put my hand over hers. On my chest.

”You put your hand here,” I said. ”Every time. Before anything. In the map room before the keeper. Under the ring. On the ice. Put it back, Lucas. You know before I do when I’m going to burn.” I held her hand there. ”You’ve stopped me burning more times than I can count. And I’ve never thanked you. Not once.”

Sera didn’t say anything.

”I love you,” I said. ”You’re the bravest person I know. You walked into the fire when Rory tested you. You pulled the heat out of a melting rock with your bare hands on the red world so a crack full of young wouldn’t cook.” I looked at her. ”And every night you come home and put your hand on my chest and check I’m not too hot. I’m proud of you. All the time. I should say it.”

Sera’s hand got very hot.

Not burning. Just hot. Under mine.

”Shut up,” she said.

”No.”

”Lucas. Shut up. Ash is listening.”

”Good,” I said. ”I want Ash to hear it.”

Ash looked up from the dog. With her hinge face. Deciding whether this deserved an explanation.

”Mama’s crying,” she told the dog. Very seriously. ”Because Papa said something nice.” She considered. ”That’s allowed.”

Sera put her face in my shoulder and set fire to my shirt.

I put it out.

Risa was on the hill.

The low one behind the house. Where she went when the weather was building in her and she needed somewhere to let it out. She had small Sigmund on her hip, crackling, and a cloud over the two of them the size of a house, very dark, turning slowly.

She saw me coming up the hill.

The cloud got darker.

”Don’t,” she said. ”Whatever it is. I can see your face from here. Don’t.”

”I have to.”

”You don’t have to. Okafor gave an order. That’s not the same as—”

”Risa.”

She stopped.

I stood at the top of the hill with her. Under the cloud. With small Sigmund looking at me with his tight bright lattice and his crest of hair standing straight up.

”You were the first,” I said.

Risa didn’t say anything.

”In the gym,” I said. ”The night of the rain. You fell asleep on my shoulder at one-thirty and Sigmund put his jacket over you and I missed Luna’s coffee.” I looked at her. ”You were the first person who ever trusted me enough to fall asleep. When you were frightened. When the lightning was crawling through the floor. You fell asleep.”

The cloud over us went very still.

”You gave me Dory,” I said. ”And small Sigmund. In the worst storm Avalon’s ever had, with your brother holding a fence round the whole city.” I looked at the boy on her hip. ”You named him after somebody who came running with no coat. That’s who you are. You see who comes running.”

Risa’s hair was standing straight up.

”I love you,” I said. ”I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry I was in the map room.”

Risa looked at me for a long time.

Then the cloud over us broke.

Not a storm. Rain. Warm. Gentle. Big soft drops, coming down on the low hill behind the crooked house, on Risa and me and small Sigmund, who put his face up into it and laughed, and sent a very small spark up into the sky.

”You idiot,” said Risa. With the rain running down her face. ”You complete idiot. You made it rain.”

”You made it rain.”

”Because of you.” She put her free hand on my face. Wet. ”You’re never in the map room again when I’m having a baby. Ever. That’s an order. Mine. Not Okafor’s.”

”Yes.”

”Not I will,” said Risa. ”Yes.”

”Yes.”

”Good,” said Risa. And kissed me in the rain.

Hana was in the barn.

Gareth’s barn, by the seventh lake. With Bess. With Efua in the box in the straw, filling the water buckets, and Kwame in his sling against her chest, watching everything.

She didn’t look up when I came in.

”Everyone’s talking about it,” she said. Brushing Bess. ”Risa came past an hour ago soaked to the skin. Sera’s shirt’s burned. Luna’s written something in her book and won’t show anyone. Genny’s put something in notebook forty-one. Garnet’s told the whole street she’s drawing you on the porch tonight.” She brushed Bess’s neck. ”Your mother’s been sitting in Father’s chair since breakfast with her hand over her mouth.”

”I’ve been busy.”

”You have,” said Hana. She put the brush down. And turned round. ”Go on, then. My turn.”

I didn’t know where to start.

Hana waited. With Kwame watching me from her chest, very calmly, the way he looked at everything.

”You told me,” I said at last. ”On the ship. To Luna. That you didn’t know you were more than water. Your whole life. And then you found out.” I looked at her. ”And you weren’t frightened. You just said oh, this is what it is. And held the air for a hundred young on the ice.”

”I was frightened,” said Hana. ”I told you. On the porch.”

”You were frightened and you did it anyway,” I said. ”Like Mother. Like Father said.” I put my hand on Kwame’s head. On the soft hair. ”You came on the night train from the plains to sit with Dory on the red glass and hold a cup of water to her mouth every hour. Nobody asked you. You just came.” I looked at her. ”You’re turning into something nobody’s ever seen. And you’re not hiding from it. You’re teaching Liam.”

Hana didn’t say anything.

”I love you,” I said. ”I’m proud of you. And whatever you turn into, I want to see it. All of it. I don’t want you to hold any of it back because you think it’s too much. It won’t be.”

Hana looked at me for a long time.

Then she opened one hand.

And the air in the barn, very faintly, for a moment, smelled of rain.

”That’s Kwame’s,” I said.

”No,” said Hana. Very quietly. ”That one’s mine.” She closed her hand. ”I learned it from him.”

I found Liam in the square.

Under the silver tree. Sitting on the long table, which nobody was supposed to sit on, with his boots on the bench and his forearms faintly bright. Rory the second asleep across his knees.

He looked at me.

”Sera’s shirt,” he said. ”Risa’s soaked. Mum says Dorothy’s been in Father’s chair with her hand over her mouth all day.” He narrowed his eyes. ”Is it my turn?”

”You’re not family.”

”I’m your wife’s brother,” said Liam. ”Your other wife’s brother-in-law. Your sister’s teacher’s husband’s nephew’s—” He stopped. ”I’m Liam. That’s family.”

I sat down on the long table beside him.

”The dome,” I said. ”When I was a cadet. The first week. You told me the temper wasn’t the fire. It was not being able to put it back.” I looked at him. ”You put it back on the Kethri world. A whole forest. You carried a crack’s worth of heat off the red world as steam so the young wouldn’t cook. You learned to see the air inside a fire from watching Hana.” I was quiet. ”You were the first person on Squad Eight who made me laugh. On the first day. I’d forgotten what laughing was.”

Liam didn’t say anything. His forearms went brighter.

”You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” I said. ”I’m proud of you. And I’m glad Anja made you ask.”

Liam looked down at Rory the second, asleep across his knees.

”Shut up,” he said. Very rough. ”Calders don’t—” He stopped. ”Shut up, Lucas.”

He didn’t let go of my arm for a long time.

Toby and Wren were at the north wall.

Not counting. Okafor said no. Just sitting on the wall in the late afternoon, with Harriet between them asleep in her sling, and the stone on the wall beside Wren’s hand.

I sat down on the wall too.

Wren looked at me. Very steadily. The way she looked at anything before she’d counted it.

”Two hundred and nine thousand,” she said. ”People who’ve heard about you today. From the north wall. I can hear them talking.” She tilted her head. ”They’re saying the Scarecrow’s going round telling everyone he loves them. They think it means something’s going to happen tomorrow.”

”Something is.”

”I know,” said Wren. ”I’m just telling you what they think.”

I looked at Toby. With his hands in his pockets. Who’d sung his name into the hello on Day 607 and heard his mother sing it back. Who’d put his hand on Jessa’s heart when the stones held the note on their own. Who’d stood in the corner of the quiet room the morning Dory came.

”You were in the corner,” I said. ”When Dory was born. On the list. Priya. Edda. Lucas, corner. You wrote it.” I looked at him. ”You’ve been in every corner since. Holding young in a note. Hearing hearts. Telling Sigmund now. Singing a stone full of Harriet so Wren could count under a ring.” I put my hand on the stone on the wall. ”I’ve never told you. You’re the one who makes everything have something steady under it.”

Toby didn’t say anything for a long time.

”That’s Harriet,” he said at last. ”She does that.”

”She learned it from you.”

Toby looked at his daughter, asleep in her sling.

”Yeah,” he said. Very quietly. ”I suppose she did.”

Wren put her hand on the stone. Next to mine.

”Lucas,” she said. ”Count me in.”

I looked at her.

”In what?”

”Whatever it is you’re doing today,” said Wren. ”Count me in it.” She didn’t look away. ”Nobody counted me for a long time. Until Aunt Renata. Until Toby.” A pause. ”I’d like you to.”

So I told her. That she was the one who heard the shape of everyone. That she counted fifty-eight thousand children by the voice that was making them forget, and didn’t stop, for nine hours. That she was turning into more of herself.

”Six hundred and fourteen,” said Wren. When I’d finished. ”And six hundred and fifteen. You.” She picked up the stone. ”That’s both of us counted.”

Okafor was at the foot of the steps of Scarecrow.

At dusk. With her slate. She didn’t look up when I came across the square.

”No,” she said.

”I haven’t said anything.”

”You’re going to,” said Okafor. ”I can see your face from here. Everyone on Avalon can see your face. Windsor’s been in the map room writing in her book all afternoon and won’t tell me what.” She tucked the slate under her arm. ”I gave that order for everyone else, Dask. Not for me.”

I stopped in front of her.

”You said whoever you’d like to say it to.”

Okafor didn’t move.

”You read my name off a slate,” I said. ”On the first day. In a dome with a training hall. When I was a cadet who’d never seen a forge since Father’s.” I looked at her. ”You’ve been reading names off slates ever since. Every crossing. Every dawn. You counted us up from forty in a canyon to three and a half million.” I was quiet. ”You gave me Father’s anatomy book with his notes in the margins. You told me to trust nobody above the rank of sergeant. You’ve been the sergeant ever since.”

Okafor’s face didn’t change.

”I’m proud to have been on your slate,” I said. ”That’s all. I wanted you to know.”

Okafor stood very still at the foot of the steps for a long time.

Then she took the slate out from under her arm. And turned it over. To the back. And wrote something. Very small.

She didn’t show it to me.

She put it back under her arm.

”Dawn,” she said. ”After the count. Don’t be late.”

”I’m never late.”

”You were late on the first day,” said Okafor. ”Eleven minutes. I wrote it down.” She turned and went up the steps. At the top she stopped. And didn’t turn round.

”Dask.”

”Major.”

”I’ve been proud of you since the eleven minutes,” said Okafor. ”I just never had an order for it.”

She went in.

The children were last.

At dusk. On the porch. Where Garnet had said I had to sit for an hour while she drew me. In Father’s chair, which Mother gave up without a word and went to sit on the steps.

They came one at a time. Because Dory organised it. Dory organised everything.

Ash first. Who climbed into my lap and looked at me with her hinge face and said, ”Mama says you’re saying nice things to everyone. Is it my turn?”

”Yes.”

”Go on, then.”

”You decide whether everything deserves an explanation,” I said. ”Every single thing. Every person. And then you give it one, or you don’t.” I looked at her. ”Nobody else does that. You’re going to be the person everyone on Avalon wants to explain things to them. I’m proud of you already.”

Ash considered this. Very seriously.

”That deserves an explanation,” she said. And gave me one. It took twenty minutes. It was about the dog.

Trevor next. Who froze my knee and laughed.

Small Sigmund, who sent a spark up my arm and held it there. Steady. Like a lamp on a table. The fence inside him, very small. I told him he was named after someone brave. He didn’t understand. He held the spark there anyway.

Efua, who filled every cup on the porch.

Kwame, who looked at me for a long time, very calmly, and then opened his hand, and the air smelled of rain. And then, for the first time, made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Low. Like Toby’s counter-note.

Hana, on the steps, put her hand over her mouth.

Tally didn’t come up.

She sat on the end of the porch rail with Reed and Moon, the way she always did, with the notebook open on her knee, and watched every one of them climb into my lap and be told. And made a mark for each.

When Kwame had made his sound and gone back to Hana, I looked at her.

”I am not yours,” said Tally. Very carefully. ”I know that.”

”You’re on the porch,” I said. ”In Garnet’s drawing. Every night.”

Tally looked at the notebook for a long time.

Then she turned to a clean page. And held out the pencil. To me.

I wrote her name. And under it, one mark.

”Thank you,” said Tally. And then, very quietly: ”That is the second time anyone has counted me in their own hand. Jory was the first.”

Dory was last.

She came up the steps with Pebble and stood in front of Father’s chair. With the frost-lattice bright round her eyes.

”You told everyone,” she said.

”Yes.”

”You told Grandma and Genny and Garnet and Mama and Mama Sera and Mama Luna and Hana.” She counted on her fingers. ”And Ash and Trevor and Sigmund and the twins.” She looked at me. ”Is it my turn?”

”Yes.”

Dory waited.

I looked at her for a long time. My first. Born at dawn, at the exact moment the hello came, with the lattice already round her eyes. Who’d turned her head in the first second of her life and touched her grandmother eleven light-years away. Who held everything. Every crossing. Every world.

Who’d turned five and not told anyone, so we wouldn’t be sad we forgot.

”Tomorrow,” I said, ”everything’s going to go through you. Every queen. Every world. Everything.”

”I know.”

”And I’m going to be listening,” I said. ”To all of it. And I’m going to hear you holding it. The way I hear you every night.” I put my hand flat on hers. ”And I’m going to be so proud of you I won’t be able to breathe.”

Dory looked at me.

”Hana can help with that,” she said. Very practically. ”She’s good at breathing.”

Then she climbed into my lap. With Ash. And Pebble put his head on my feet. And Garnet, on the porch rail, drew very fast.

”Papa,” said Dory. Very sleepily. Against my chest.

”Yes.”

”You said it to everyone.”

”Yes.”

”Say it to me too,” said Dory. ”The actual words. Like you did to Grandma.” She shut her eyes. ”I want to hear what they sound like.”

So I said it.

”I love you, Dory.”

”Again.”

”I love you.”

”Good,” said Dory. ”Now I’ve heard it twice.” And fell asleep.

Garnet finished the drawing an hour later.

She brought it over. And held it out. In the lamplight.

Everyone. On the porch. Mother on the steps. Luna at the kitchen window. Sera with Ash. Risa with small Sigmund and a cloud. Hana with the twins. Genny on the rail. Tally and Reed and Moon at the end. Trevor on a blanket. Pebble.

And in Father’s chair, me.

With Dory asleep on my chest.

No empty space.

Days 2723–2724. Out loud.

Okafor gave one order before the singing: say whatever you’d like to say. I hear everyone’s silver now; none of them can hear mine; they only know what I say, and I don’t say much. Father never said it awake. Mother told me he said it every night, standing between our beds while we slept, because the words got stuck like ash in a filter. So I said it, awake, to everyone. Mother cried and said Father would be cross that I managed on the first try. Genny wrote Witnessed, G. Dask, inside the back of notebook forty-one. Garnet wound the scarf back round my neck and made me sit still for her drawing. Liam told me to shut up and didn’t let go of my arm. Wren asked to be counted in. Okafor said she’d been proud since I was eleven minutes late on the first day. Luna wrote Lucas. Said it. Sera set fire to my shirt; Ash told the dog it was allowed. Risa made it rain and ordered me never to be in the map room again. Hana made the air smell of rain herself. Kwame made his first sound. Dory asked to hear the actual words, twice. Garnet’s drawing of the porch has no empty space.