The Host(93)

It was with a strange mingling of relief and regret that I sloshed my way out of the pool. The water was very pleasant, as was the feeling of clean, if prickling, skin. But I’d had quite enough of the blindness and the things I could imagine into the darkness. I felt around until I found the dry clothes, then I pulled them quickly on and shoved my water-wrinkled feet into my shoes. I carried my wet clothes in one hand and the soap gingerly between two fingers of the other.

Jeb laughed when I emerged; his eyes were on the soap in my cautious grasp.

“Smarts a bit, don’t it? We’re trying to fix that.” He held out his hand, protected by the tail of his shirt, and I placed the soap in it.

I didn’t answer his question because we weren’t alone; there was a line waiting silently behind him—five people, all of them from the field turning.

Ian was first in line.

“You look better,” he told me, but I couldn’t tell from his tone if he was surprised or annoyed that I did.

He raised one arm, extending his long, pale fingers toward my neck. I flinched away, and he dropped his hand quickly.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered.

Did he mean for scaring me now or for marking up my neck in the first place? I couldn’t imagine that he was apologizing for trying to kill me. Surely he still wanted me dead. But I wasn’t going to ask. I started walking, and Jeb fell into step behind me.

“So, today wasn’t that bad,” Jeb said as we walked through the dark corridor.

“Not that bad,” I murmured. After all, I hadn’t been murdered. That was always a plus.

“Tomorrow will be even better,” he promised. “I always enjoy planting—seeing the miracle of the little dead-looking seeds having so much life in them. Makes me feel like a withered old guy might have some potential left in him. Even if it’s only to be fertilizer.” Jeb laughed at his joke.

When we got to the big garden cavern, Jeb took my elbow and steered me east rather than west.

“Don’t try to tell me you’re not hungry after all that digging,” he said. “It’s not my job to provide room service. You’re just going to have to eat where everyone else eats.”

I grimaced at the floor but let him lead me to the kitchen.

It was a good thing the food was exactly the same thing as always, because if, miraculously, a filet mignon or a bag of Cheetos had materialized, I wouldn’t have been able to taste a thing. It took all my concentration just to make myself swallow—I hated to make even that small sound in the dead silence that followed my appearance. The kitchen wasn’t crowded, just ten people lounging against the counters, eating their tough rolls and drinking their watery soup. But I killed all conversation again. I wondered how long things could last like this.

The answer was exactly four days.

It also took me that long to understand what Jeb was up to, what the motivation was behind his switch from the courteous host to the curmudgeonly taskmaster.

The day after turning the soil I spent seeding and irrigating the same field. It was a different group of people than the day before; I imagined there was some kind of rotation of the chores here. Maggie was in this group, and the caramel-skinned woman, but I didn’t learn her name. Mostly everyone worked in silence. The silence felt unnatural—a protest against my presence.

Ian worked with us, when it was clearly not his turn, and this bothered me.

I had to eat in the kitchen again. Jamie was there, and he kept the room from total silence. I knew he was too sensitive not to notice the awkward hush, but he deliberately ignored it, seeming to pretend that he and Jeb and I were the only people in the room. He chattered about his day in Sharon’s class, bragging a little about some trouble he’d gotten into for speaking out of turn, and complaining about the chores she’d given him as punishment. Jeb chastised him halfheartedly. They both did a very good job of acting normal. I had no acting ability. When Jamie asked me about my day, the best I could do was stare intently at my food and mumble one-word answers. This seemed to make him sad, but he didn’t push me.

At night it was a different story—he wouldn’t let me stop talking until I begged to be allowed to sleep. Jamie had reclaimed his room, taking Jared’s side of the bed and insisting that I take his. This was very much as Melanie remembered things, and she approved of the arrangement.

Jeb did, too. “Saves me the trouble of finding someone to play guard. Keep the gun close and don’t forget it’s there,” he told Jamie.

I protested again, but both the man and the boy refused to listen to me. So Jamie slept with the gun on the other side of his body from me, and I fretted and had nightmares about it.