Alan took Marci back to his bedroom, the winter bedroom that was no more than a niche in the hot-spring cavern, a pile of rags and a sleeping bag for a bed. It had always been enough for him, but now he was ashamed of it. He took the flashlight from Marci and let it wind down, so that they were sitting in darkness.
“Your parents—” she said, then broke off.
“It’s complicated.”
“Are they dead?”
He reached out in the dark and took her hand.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he said. “I can lie, and you’ll probably think I’m telling the truth. Or I can tell the truth, and you’ll think that I’m lying.”
She squeezed his hand. Despite the sweaty heat of the cave, her fingers were cold as ice. He covered her hand with his free hand and rubbed at her cold fingers.
“Tell me the truth,” she whispered. “I’ll believe you.”
So he did, in mutters and whispers. He didn’t have the words to explain it all, didn’t know exactly how to explain it, but he tried. How he knew his father’s moods. How he felt his mother’s love.
After keeping this secret all his life, it felt incredible to be letting it out. His heart thudded in his chest, and his shoulders felt progressively lighter, until he thought he might rise up off his bedding and fly around the cave.