Freewill by Chris Lynch Page B

of those electronic ankle bracelets now?”
    Jacks does it again. The cat yodels. “It’s nothing like that, Will, you know that.”
    You know nothing of the kind. The smallest certainty is impossible at this moment.
    It is exactly then that you become aware of the lightnessof being you, the physical near-nothingness of it. You are not a body, not a kite, but a massive inflatable parade character, and Jacks’s arm feels suddenly like the thing that is keeping you tethered to this earth. He is, in fact, guiding you, as the two of you newly great and good buddies wend your way, on display, through the crowd.
    And some crowd. Look at them, Will. As much as you can look at them through the great distance, the blurring, the milky mist. Mist or no, though, it is a sad, scary view, and while you are wondering whether they are scared of you, you have every right to be the one who is afraid.
    There is no life in this building. People are here because they have to be here or because where else are they going to go. It is more manageable for everybody to presume they need to be someplace, rather than having to decide all the time what they should be doing, with whom, where and why. That is why the school is at this moment loaded with students who are not going to learn anything, teachers who aren’t going to teach anything, and you.
    Choice, Will. It can kill you. It is supposed to be what makes living worthwhile. It is what makes not living an option.
    They look so sad. Don’t they look so sad? Every last person. You have to keep rubbing and rubbing your eyes to get a clear view of a face but you keep doing it and every timeyou do you are repaid, with a sad, searching face looking hard back into you before turning quickly away.
    You reach out, a blind man’s move, trying to grab a touch of somebody who seemed to be right there, but then wasn’t. You try a second time, reaching for a denim arm that seems right there , but then is gone. You squint at a lone small figure with long black hair. She drops her gaze to the floor.
    Lock up your children, and avert your eyes. The teen angel of death comes again.
    Jacks is, most likely, utterly lost. He takes each of your moves to be some kind of collapse, and gathers you back up into his benign, unwelcome embrace. You ignore him. Continue lurching, leering, attempting contact, mortifying people.
    You never noticed them before. You never looked at them before. They never noticed you either.
    That is changed. None of them want to touch, but you are all for sure noticing each other now. Because now you share something. You are all scared and lost, and not one of you knows what comes next.
    Certainly you weren’t expecting this. You let Jacks lead you blindly, but you didn’t figure on seeing any crisp white uniforms again so soon.
    â€œWhy are we here? We were going to the shop . . .”
    â€œYou have to be cleared to come back to class, Will, that’sall. Nurse has to just look you over, give you the all’s clear. For your own safety. Don’t be concerned.”
    And you are being examined again. Someone, Ms. Appleton, tall pallid unhealthy-looking school nurse, is looking deep into your eyes. As has happened a lot lately. She is asking you questions about yourself. As has happened a lot lately.
    â€œI am in junior year.
    â€œYes, I am taking medication.
    â€œThe hospital didn’t find a break. But I know there is one.
    â€œNo, I don’t believe they are trying to keep something from me.
    â€œI meant to be a pilot, not a woodworker. It was an administrative error.”
    The next thing you know, you are headed back out the front door with a note in your hand. The halls are now all empty, but just as silent as they were with all the bodies.
    â€œJust a few more days’ rest, that’s all,” Mr. Jacks is saying. “You don’t want to come back too soon until you are feeling up to it.”
    â€œI