Stolen by Lucy Christopher

the window, then wrote something down. The previously locked drawer was hanging open, but I couldn’t see what was inside. There was something that looked like a needle on the bench nearby.
    My stomach kind of flipped. Everything around you pointed to one thing: drugs. Perhaps drugs you’d used on me, perhaps ones you were yet to use. I stepped back from the kitchen. You didn’t look up. For once you were more engrossed in something else.
    I walked through the small porch area, past the batteries and boards lined up against the wall, and stepped onto the veranda. I looked at the floor while my eyes got accustomed to the brightness. When I could look out without squinting too much, I took a few steps and leaned against the rail. I stared across the sand to the Separates. The fence you’d made was still up, the boulders as still as ever within it. From where I stood, no one would guess at the greenness and life that those rocks contained; no one would believe the birdsong. Those rocks were secretive and strange. Like you.
    I glanced at the cloudless blue sky. There were no planes up there, no helicopters. No rescue missions. Lying in bed, I’d had the idea of writing “help” in the sand, but I realized then, it was a pretty stupid idea if no one ever flew over anyway. I turned to see the rest of the view: horizon, horizon, Separates, horizon, horizon, horizon … nowhere to run.
    I heard your steps on the wood and the snap of the door before I saw you on the veranda.
    “You got up,” you said. “I’m glad.”
    I stepped back.
    “Why today?” You looked genuinely curious.
    But I was full up with sadness. I knew that if I opened my mouth, it would all come spewing out. And I didn’t want you to have anything from me, not even that. You kept trying, though.

“Nice day,” you said, “hot and still.”
    I backed up into the couch. I grabbed its arm, making the wicker strands crunch.
    “Do you want food?”
    I stared straight ahead, looking at the craters in the rocks.
    “Sit down.”
    I did; don’t know why. You had that tone in your voice, I guess, that tone that would be stupid to argue with, the tone that made my legs weak with fear.
    “Why don’t we talk?”
    I drew my feet up. A tiny breeze had started blowing the grains around. I looked at the sand that was starting to swirl in front of us, a few feet ahead.
    “Tell me about something, anything—your life in London, your friends, even your parents!”
    I flinched at the sudden loudness of your words. I didn’t want to tell you anything, let alone about them. I clasped my arms around my knees. What would Mum be doing right now? How upset were they that I had disappeared? What had they done to get me back? I gripped my legs a little tighter, trying to force their faces from my mind.
    You didn’t say anything for a while, just stared out at the land. I watched you from the side of my eye as you pulled at your eyebrow with your forefinger and thumb. You weren’t comfortable, hovering on the edge of the veranda. I knew what you were thinking, though; you were trying to come up with something new to talk about, something interesting to entice me out of my hole. Your brain was sweating with the effort. Eventually you leaned your elbows on the railing and let out a low sigh. You talked with a voice so quiet.
    “Is it really that bad?” you asked. “Living with me?”
    I opened my lips and breathed out. I waited at least a minute. “Of course,” I whispered.
    Perhaps there was something more to those two words … some sort of a need to connect, wanting to use my voice rather than risk losing it. Because that’s what it felt like then, when that wind was up and blowing the sand around; it felt like it could blow my voice completely away from me, too. I was disappearing with those grains, scattering with the wind.
    You heard my words, though. You nearly stumbled off the veranda with shock. You frowned as you composed yourself and thought about my