The Space Between by Brenna Yovanoff Page A

when I watch him for minutes at a time, he will not look in my direction.
    At Jackson Street, we transfer to the Blue Line. In the seat next to me, Truman shivers, holding his elbows. I can’t think of anything to help him. He’s rocking, making a low noise in his throat, and I reach for his hand.
    “We need to get off the train,” he says in a thick, hoarse voice. “The next stop, I need to get off.”
    “No, our stop isn’t here yet. Two more platforms.”
    He shakes his head, his eyes barely open, pulls his hand away. “I have to get off right now.”
    “I read the timetable. It had a map. Your stop isn’t for two more platforms.”
    “I have to get off the train.” He’s leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees and his head hanging down. “I feel really sick.”
    I touch him and feel the bones in his back, the way his spine juts through the sweater.
    “Please,” he says again, looking up. His lips are a cold blue-gray color.
    As the train slows into the next station, I try to help him, but he’s already on his feet, stumbling toward the sliding doors.
    I smile politely at the girl who steps out of Truman’s way to let him off, and at the other people in the car. The smile feels false, but no one comments on my teeth this time. When I step out onto the platform, it’s a relief to be away from their stares. The doors wheeze shut behind me and I go to retrieve Truman Flynn.
    I find him in the dark, beside the little station shelter. The lights above him have all blown out, leaving shards that crunch under my boots and glitter with the reflected glow of the street. He’s on his feet, but barely, hands braced against the shelter wall, head hanging down. I stand with my bag propped against my shins and my hands in the pockets of my coat, and wait for him to finish being sick.
    I’d make a face to show disdain or disgust, something that Moloch would do, but I don’t know the way to shape my mouth. Everything feels wrong and I don’t know how to act like I’m above it. The train is roaring away, the platform shaking roughly, the shelter rattling. There is broken glass everywhere.
    “You can help him,” my mother says at my feet in a hundred bright, clear voices. She echoes from the shards under my boots, reverberates in the jagged reflections of herself. “All you have to do is take away tonight. He’ll feel better and you need the fix.”
    “I can’t just take a whole night from someone. This is his .”
    The horde of tiny Liliths smile up at me maliciously. “And clearly an experience worth cherishing. He doesn’t need it and you do. Don’t tell me you’ve got no appetite.”
    She’s right. The hollow feeling in my chest is there, not unbearable, but growing. I look away, shaking my head. “I’m not doing that.”
    “Your sisters were never this squeamish,” she says, twinkling in the scattered glass, already disappearing. “Take him home then and let him sleep. In the morning, make him tell you what he knows.”
    I step into the shadow under the broken lights, where Truman is still slumped with his palms braced against the shelter. I touch him, resting my hand on his back, and he leans his forehead against the wall.
    “Who are you?” he mutters, mouth close to the cement. “Why are you here?”
    I don’t say anything, just take him by the elbow and lead him out under the light.
    “Who are you?” he asks again, more insistent.
    “I’m Daphne.”
    He keeps clearing his throat, like if he could just get something out of the way, he could speak. Say everything.
    “I won’t hurt you,” I tell him, but it’s only a whisper. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
    He looks around, blinking but not seeming to focus. “Jesus. Where are we?”
    “The wrong platform,” I say. “We need to get back on the train.”
    He scrubs a hand across his face, shaking his head. “I can’t.”
    “You need to sleep. I’m taking you home.”
    “Not the train. I can’t.” He says it