The Enchanted by Rene Denfeld Page A

see, that he couldn’t see. There were times I thought the best thing I could have done was poke that boy’s eyes out with a stick.” He is still holding the green bud.
    â€œThey didn’t just come for her, did they, Troy?”
    His eyes are on her, beseeching. “No, ma’am. They didn’t just come for her.”
    â€œI thought you were one of the men who hurt her. But you wanted to help.”
    â€œI didn’t help her, ma’am. I tried and then ran like a chicken. I left that little boy. I left him and his mom to all those men. And later, when I heard what he did . . . I was a coward, ma’am.”
    â€œYou promised York you would stay, didn’t you?”
    His face looks old, no longer handsome. “How did you know that?”
    â€œA rabbit told me.”
    â€œH ey, crazy.” Striker has been at his door for hours, whispering to me. “I know you can hear me, crazy man. I know you can talk.”
    I hide under the blanket on my cot. I climb against the bed wall and turn my face to the reassuring stone. I wish I had a book to hold, but I gave back Crazy Weather days ago. I read it three times first.
    â€œGot something for you, crazy ass.” Striker hoots like a monkey. His giggle is low and sharply melodic. A crumpled ball of stiff white paper lands in the hall in front of our cells.
    I peek at the piece of crumpled paper from under my blanket. It looks like a page from a book. I am too far away to see if it has writing.
    â€œSee? Crazy ass. Here you go.” Another ball of crumpled paper lands in the hall. “Want more? Crazy ass, it’s what you get.”
    A distinct reek fills the row. It is the smell of shit, ripe and pungent. I smell it often enough, from my cell and others. The toilets don’t flush well down here, and the air barely circulates. But this smell is in front of me.
    â€œI like your book, crazy ass.”
    Cold water fills me—cold water that turns to icy panic in my veins. I can barely hear someone on the other side of me say, “Aw, come on, knock it off, Striker.” It is York, of all people, telling Striker to stop.
    â€œYou like the Eskimos, don’t you? Crazy.”
    The sodden ball lands neatly in front of my cell. I can see the brown smears now, see the tiny print defaced with his shit.
    â€œI heard you can talk, crazy ass. I heard you talked. You talked when you did him. Tell me about it, crazy ass. You’re not fucking mute, you lying crazy ass. You can talk. Tell me.”
    A chorus of complaints is rising from cells down the row. It is not my book they are complaining about, it isthe reek of fresh shit. I can barely hear them through my red rage. I begin to pull out my hair, tears smarting in my eyes. I remember what happened before I fell for the second time, and I am glad there are bars between Striker and me. Then I am not so glad, because I could easily kill him right now. I would strangle him and bash his ugly head against the stone floor until his skull broke and the brains and blood leaked from his ears and I would tear out his eyes with my long horny nails and I would use those sharp claws to tear open—
    Another crumpled ball smeared with shit. It is the cover page of The White Dawn. “Let’s hear you talk now, crazy ass.”
    It is too late. I am bolting across my cell, my hands up the smooth metal bars, ricocheting back soundlessly to bounce off the walls, tearing, ripping, banging against anything I can. There is a delighted hoot next door. I smash my arms against the toilet rim, rip holes in my cheeks, and spread the blood. Striker keeps hooting, laughing, and tossing the shit balls as he hears me smash around my cell. He knows I can make no sound, raging in my cell, and he rips and tears, and the entire row begins shouting, and yet no guards ever come until my favorite book lines the row in an ankle drift of shit-stormed paper. I tear my graying hair until it is