“Sammy.”

Sammy was across the room. Kirby could hear him. There was a quiet rhythm to the noises: the clink of ceramics, one or two footsteps, the shuffle of something being pushed over an unknown surface.

“Sammy?”

The rhythm of noises slowed, but they didn’t stop.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Sammy grumbled.

There was a whisper of air as Kirby sighed through his nose. “I’m sorry. That was”—he paused—“my fault. I promise, I won’t ask you to let me go again.”

The random noises stopped; they were replaced by more footsteps. Sammy’s voice came to him from somewhere closer; it was lower and slower than normal.

“What do you need?”

“I’m wondering if you’re okay.”

Sammy didn’t answer.

Kirby felt his stomach twist. He tugged on his ear and rubbed the back of his neck.

This was too much for him. All the emotions. Feeling anxious every moment. After a few days, he’d gotten used to the fear that made it feel as if his heart was beating inside a closed fist, and as time went on, the grip had eased. But he still moved in an abyss. There were no borders in his world, and too little known about the space around him. The only things he knew were the edge of the table in front of him, the chair he was resting on, the paths to the couch and the bathroom…and Sammy’s voice.

Sadness has a sound, Kirby thought.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He forced out a breath of laughter, and ignored the sting of guilt and frustration that came with it. “You know, he was awfully mad—”

“He’s not usually like that.”

It was almost cheating; comments like that were sure to get Sammy talking.

“Are you okay?” Kirby asked.

“Yeah.”

Kirby tried to weigh what he could and couldn’t say. “I heard something,” he ventured. “When he was yelling at you.”

“He hit the table.”

There was a quiet clunk. Kirby had heard it before. He was pretty sure it was a cupboard. A second later, there was the sound of running water. Then footsteps.

“He didn’t hurt you?” Kirby asked.

He could feel Sammy’s presence, towering over him. He was close. There was the sound of a glass being placed on the table.

“He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s not usually like that.”

“So you’ve said,” Kirby muttered.

He reached out, carefully feeling along the table for the glass of water. He heard Sammy pull out a chair a few feet away, followed by the soft sounds of wood settling. Then nothing.

Kirby had never known a man that large to be so quiet.

“I messed up,” Sammy grumbled.

Kirby stopped, his ears straining, but Sammy didn’t feel the need to add anything to his statement.

“It didn’t sound that way to me,” Kirby said. “You did what he said. All those plans. Plan A—”

“It was Plan B.” Sammy’s voice took on the slightly higher tone that meant he was reciting something. “‘If something goes wrong, stay and listen.’” His voice dropped again. “He was still mad.”

That was certainly true.

“Does he often get mad like that?” Kirby asked.

For a while there was silence. Then:

“This is an important job. That’s why we’re staying—we wouldn’t otherwise.” He added in a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

At first, nothing. A second later, the roots of the words dug their way into Kirby’s mind.

“You’re sorry?” he said. “You’re saying sorry…to me?”

“If I didn’t mess up, we could all go home.”

The man’s voice was husky, and there were tiny pauses between the words that made it sound as if he was holding back tears.

“No, Sammy.” Kirby reached out but felt only tabletop. “It’s all right. You didn’t mess up.”

Sammy didn’t answer.

Kirby sat back in his chair. “My name is Kirby,” he said quietly.

“Kirby?” The sadness was gone from Sammy’s voice. “Like…like the pink guy?”

Nolan smiled. “Yeah. Like the little round pink guy.”

His smile widened when he heard the soft, rhythmic exhales of Sammy’s silent laugh.