Two months after she left, his mom tried to take down the blanket fort. He came down the stairs, whistling tunelessly, and froze on the bottom step. He watched his as she picked up the folded blankets and began to carry them to the closet.
"You can't take it down." He said, swallowing. His voice didn't sound like his own.
"Michael . . ." She sighed, impatiently, not looking at him.
"You can't take it down." He repeated, clenching his fists so his fingernails bit into the skin of his palms. She finally met his gaze, and folded her arms over her chest. There was a glimmer of worry in her eyes, even fear, looking at her son.
He forced himself off the landing and pushed past her, pulling the blankets out of the closet.
"Michael . . ." Mrs. Wheeler pleaded, watching his frantic attempt to rebuild the fort. He whirled around, mouth twisting into an agonized grimace."
"She's still out there!" He yelled, and burst into tears. Mrs. Wheeler rushed forward, embracing her son. He didn't push her away. His whole body shook as he cried, drawing in great gasps of air.
"She's s-still out there and I nuh-need to find h-her. I need to find her . . ."
"Oh, Mike." His mom said, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, honey."
He cried until he couldn't cry anymore, and his mom held him, as if he were still a little kid. He sniffled and drew away from her. She touched his cheek, lightly.
Mrs. Wheeler never met the girl they called Eleven. The one who, unbeknownst to her, lived in the basement for the better part of a week. The one who held her son's heart, even in absence.
He swallowed, wiping his cheeks.
"Sometimes . . ." He said, and trailed off, staring at the ground. "Sometimes I feel like I still see her."
Mike bit his lip.
The lights still flickered, occasionally. Once. Twice. The lamp on his bedside table, the lights in the bathroom. And shadows moved. Shapes flickered in his peripheral vision, and winked out of sight whenever he turned his head.
Often, he felt a light touch of a hand on his shoulder or along his wrist, a change in the air, an energy. Electricity.
And he felt her thoughts. She was a presence in his mind, if not a presence in the room.
He kept his Super Com by his bedside table, and it hummed every so often, coughing faint static. If he listened hard enough, he could hear her. Breathing. Sometimes, she whispered his name.
She was a ghost in the walls and a presence in his mind. Her nearness drove him crazy, yet also pacified him. She was close, and safe. And he kept the fort up because he hadn't given up on her. Not yet. Not ever.
His mom put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. A sad, adult smile. He sniffed,
"We'll keep the fort up." She said, softly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Later, after she tucked Holly into bed, Mrs. Wheeler came down the basement stairs. She peered into the fort and sighed.
Mike was curled up in there, fast asleep, one hand clasped around the Super Com, the other resting on his chest. She made to turn off the lamp, and stopped short.
A girl sat in the fort, beside her son. She was thin, with dark eyes and short, curly hair that looked to be dirty and matted. The girl looked at Mrs. Wheeler and smiled, sadly. Mrs. Wheeler opened her mouth, to say something to the girl. As soon as she had appeared, she was gone. Karen blinked, staring at the space beside Mike where the girl, Eleven, had been. She pressed a hand over her heart and leaned against the stair rail.
I'm losing my mind.
She told herself, drawing a shaky breath. Across the room, the lamp flickered weakly.
She crossed the room, glancing worriedly at Mike, who tossed fitfully in his sleep. She switched off the light.