I groan from deep in my throat and my eyes snap shut at the sound of it. I sound like a monster that hides under beds, watching, waiting. Or like my monsters who don’t bother to hide at all.

Finally, I give in to the urge—to the intrigue—and I look out the window again. Josh and Tommy are both pushing wheelbarrows. One real one. One toy one. That’s all I see before I run back to my bed, afraid he’ll spot me again.

I sit still for a shorter time than the last before I jump up and part my curtains again. Tommy has a bucket now. Josh and my grandmother are speaking to each other while looking at the garden bed between the fence and the driveway. My grandmother points at a few things while Josh stands with his hands on his hips and nods.

That’s enough, I tell myself, and go back to sitting on my bed… to staring at the wallpaper.

Then I repeat the process.

Over and over again I go from my window to the bed until an hour has passed and I’m spending more time looking out the window than I am at my wallpaper.

The wallpaper is stupid.

Tommy’s on a scooter now as Josh wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt—his back to me while Grams inspects what I’m sure, at one stage, was a bright yellow flower.

I decide right away that it’s my favorite of all the flowers.

I sit back on my bed, chew my thumb, just for a few seconds before looking back out. Grams is in her car now, reversing out of the driveway. Tommy’s got the bucket from earlier on his head, and Josh’s in the garden bed, one foot in the soil and the other on a shovel… right underneath my just-declared favorite flower.

His foot presses down and for some reason there’s a sharp ache in my chest. My gaze switches from his foot to the flower, over and over. Time slows and his foot moves and so does the flower as the shovel tilts, separating the plant from its roots and before I know it I’m yelling, “Stop!” Only nothing comes out and I curse myself for not speaking enough. I grab my bag—the one I held on to for dear life on the bus ride here—the one I’ve held on to every day since I got here—the one that holds the only thing left that matters to me—and I run down the stairs, open the front door, and go straight to the flower.

Josh jolts a little—I guess from the shock of my presence. “What are you doing?” I whisper loudly—not intentionally—but because I’m out of breath from racing down here.

He eyes me sideways. “Your grandmother wants all new plants put in. I’m getting rid of the old ones. Why?”

“Can you wait a minute?” I ask, my voice louder, but no more clearer.

With a shrug, he answers, “Sure,” and backs away as if he thinks I’m crazy.

He’s right.

I take a moment and inspect the flower just like I’d seen Grams doing, then I open the bag and feel the cold metal against my fingertips. My hand curls around the leather grip and when I’m sure I have a solid hold, I pull it out—my camera—and bring it straight to my eye, removing the lens cap at the same time. I take one shot, and then another, and another; of a single yellow flower whose life has almost ended.

“Why are you taking a picture of a dead flower when there’s close to a million fresh ones around us?”

“Because.” I replace the lens cap and focus on putting the camera back in its place as I clear my throat. “Some things will always be beautiful, even in the face of death.”

3

-Joshua-

Who’d have thought that windows could be so distracting?

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the window itself but the person behind it. An entire day has passed and I’m still thinking about her. Yesterday, when she’d snuck up beside me, scaring the shit out of me, I turned to her quickly and got trapped again—trapped in her eyes.

Her eyes were the first thing I noticed about her. One of the only things I could remember, really.

Then she spoke.

And I remembered why it’d taken me so long to shake the thought of her the first time. It was her voice. It wasn’t horrible, but it was deep and raspy. Husky almost. The first time I heard it I remember thinking it was odd—that it didn’t seem like the type of voice that would belong to someone like her. Most pretty girls had annoying high-pitched voices. After she’d spoken yesterday, I’d decided that it was no longer odd. In fact, it was kind of hot.

So was she.

She was also completely fascinating.

Not that it matters.

I look at her window again—catching her watching me for the fifth time this morning. With a sigh, I go back to digging a hole in the dirt while Tommy plays with his cars in the driveway. Chazarae had left for church half an hour ago and had given me strict instructions on where to dig. She left out the part about what to put in them. So, here I am spending a perfectly sunny Sunday digging holes.

An hour passes and the temperature rises. I take a break and sit down on the driveway, staring at the dirt lining the fence. In my head, I count how many holes I’ve dug compared to how many more I need to and just as I go to lean back on my arms and curse the North Carolina sun for being so damn hot, something cold taps against my arm. I face it quickly; it’s a glass of iced water. Becca stands above me, blocking the sun. I look back down at the glass again and take it from her hands. “Thank you,” I say, but I’m talking to her back because she’s already walking away.

I down the entire thing in one go, set the glass down next to me, and a moment later the cold sensation’s on my arm again.