Some Quiet Place by Kelsey Sutton

stack the paint cans and lean them against my chest, shaking my head at him. “No thanks.” I start for the door.
    “No, don’t touch anything!”
    A display of vitamins topples over. The same female voice curses, and a woman appears in the aisle. Her hair is streaked with blond and her acrylic nails glint in the light. With a cell phone pressed to her ear, she bends and begins to stack the bottles. “I told you to keep your hands to yoursel f !” the woman snarls. Her glare is directed at someone blocked by the display. “No, I’m fine,” she says into the phone now, still stacking. “Morgan is just being a pain.”
    She has to mean Morgan Richardson. Sophia’s little sister. This must be her babysitter.
    The clock over her head catches my attention, and I hurry outside.
    I drive over the speed limit to get home; Tim will start bringing the cows in from the pasture, and Charles won’t be around to cover for me when it comes time for milking. Once I’ve pulled into the driveway, I park beside Tim’s truck and leave the paint cans, heading straight to the barn. Mora pokes her head over the edge of a stall at the sound of my approach—I’m even later than I realized—and I immediately move to the milking supplies.
    “Where have you been?”
    I should have seen him when I first came in; he’s standing by the shelf of bottles, holding a halter in his hands. He must have just finished taking the cows in. “I had school,” I answer carefully, trying to get an idea of what I can expect. My father glares at me.
    “I know you had school, Elizabeth. You usually get home at three. It’s twenty after. So I’m going to ask one more time: where have you been?”
    He’s forcing himself to be calm, but danger lurks beneath his scruffy exterior. I won’t tell the truth; he’ll find a reason to let his fury loose. “I was working on a school project with a partner,” I say. “For English class.” If he thinks I’m being responsible, he might let me go another night without bruises.
    Tim fiddles with the halter some more, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Who’s your partner, sweetheart?”
    I hesitate, assessing the situation from every angle, trying to figure out which one will let me off with the least pain. “Joshua Hayes.” I pause. No reaction from Tim. “He lives on a farm across town with his dad. His mom—”
    “I know who he is, Elizabeth.” Tim finally sets the halter down on his workbench and I notice for the first time how his beefy fists are clenched. His knuckles are white. “Funny thing … ” My father takes a step toward me. I don’t move. “Joshua Hayes just called the house ten minutes ago, left a message with your mom. Said something’s come up and he can’t work on your ‘project’ tomorrow. Weren’t you with him ten minutes ago?” Tim moves even closer, until he’s backed me up against a wall.
    I look up at him, blinking. Fight or flight fills my being. And for some reason I find myself choosing to hold my ground. “Where do you think I was?” I question.
    He studies me, expression still unfathomable. “You know, I didn’t notice at first. It took me a while to make any connections. But the least I can figure, you changed after that car accident. The kid I knew was just gone. I don’t know what happened to you, but the doctor said you were fine, we were just worrying too much. I don’t think so,” he repeats.
    Clearly, I’m not going to be able to get any more out of him. I try to look afraid. “I could try harder to be that person you knew. I will try.”
    “If I’ve learned anything in this godforsaken world, it’s that people don’t change. Look at me.” He laughs softly, and I smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath. “I tried to be a good husband, I tried to be a good dad. When I couldn’t do that, I tried to be a good farmer. Nope, people sure don’t change!”
    His words strike a chord somewhere inside me. He’s wrong; people can change.