Hansel 1(15)

I sniff loudly. “Are you Hansel?”

“I am.”

I nod, and cry some more. I was hoping he was here to rescue me, but I guess I should have known better.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again. His voice is gentle, prompting me to cover my face and sob into my hands.

“I miss my sisters…and my mom and dad!”

He nods a little, his head still sideways, like he’s lying on the floor the same way I am. “I’m sorry.”

I pause for a second, and determine that he sounds sincere.

“Hansel and Gretel,” I murmur to myself. I wipe my eyes. “How long have you been here?”

I stare into the yellow flecks of his hazel eyes, and he moves slightly away from the wall, so I can see a little more of his face. He’s dark-haired and attractive. Cuter than any guy in my school. I watch as his luscious mouth goes serious.

“A long time,” he says, shifting his eyes away for just a moment.

“Long like years, or long like months?”

“More like years,” he says quietly.

My heart skips a few beats, and I watch his face—what little I can see through the hole he carved out. “Are you serious?”

He presses his lips together, creating a dimple on the left side of his mouth. “I’m afraid I am.”

I start to sob again, dropping my head down on my arms. A moment later, I jump lightly when I feel something warm on my elbow.

His hand.

He’s stretched his hand through the hole in the wall, and is lightly stroking over my forearm. I study his fingers as his soothing voice says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you more upset.” Silence blooms around us as I examine his muscular arm; his big, gentle hand.

“I could hear you,” he says softly, “through the walls. I’ve been digging my way to you since you got here.”

“Thirteen days ago,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah?”

I sniff, and nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

He’s folded his hand into a partial fist, his knuckles resting against my arm.

“How ya holding up? You scared? Feeling okay?”

“I miss my sisters,” I choke. “I’m a triplet.”

His fingers start to stroke again, and I forget to breathe.

“That must be pretty cool.”

“It was,” my voice cracks, “but now they’re gone! I’m gone! They probably think I’m dead.”

He stops stroking for a moment, then picks up, even more gentle than before. “I’m really sorry. That sounds…really hard.”

“What about your family?” I murmur.

“I don’t have a family.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he says.

His fingers are still stroking, so I figure the conversation isn’t over yet. My throat is sore from the little bit of talking I’ve done, and that bothers me. I’m afraid of how lonely I’ve been, so I keep talking. I decide to try a question, even though I’m nervous if I ask the wrong one, he’ll stop touching me.

“How did you get here?” I finally manage.

There’s a little pause in his stroking; then he starts again, and answers in his deep voice: “Mother took me from a family who didn’t want me anymore.”

I wonder why they didn’t want him. That’s so sad.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“I’m sixteen or seventeen now, I think.”

He doesn’t know? I take a deep breath, and try to imagine what scenario facilitated this boy’s capture. I look down at his fingers. Maybe I could ask.

“How did she do it? How did Mother…get you?”

His thumb traces a line on the inside of my forearm, the motions gentle, slow, deliberate. I can almost see him thinking. Finally he says, “The other family helped.”

“They did?” I move my arm out from under his stroking fingers, and clasp his fingertips as a sob builds in my throat. “It’s just…so hard to believe that things like this happen, you know? How did they…how’d they help her?” I dare.

He turns his hand over, and I see a thick scar running along the inside of his wrist. Oh, no. My stomach aches, and for a moment I can’t speak. “That’s when it happened?” Silence rises up between us, and I rush to fill it. “I’m so sorry. That must have been…so horrible.”

“Not your fault,” he says after a second. His hand is in a fist again, lying against the rug, away from mine. He starts to pull it away, and my fingers touch his knuckles. I don’t want him to leave yet. For the first time since I got here, I feel…better.

“What happened?” I whisper. “To…your arm?” I’d normally never ask this sort of question, but in this scenario, it just pops out.