The water tastes awful, unbelievably so, like metal and mud, but he can't stop himself. He gulps it
down as it comes, faster through the tap now. After ten or twelve swallows, he feels a churning in his
stomach, leans back, and throws up all the water he just drank into the sink in great, rust-colored
cataracts.
He pants heavily for a minute.
Then he sees that the water is running a little clearer, though still not exactly drinkable looking. He
waits for as long as he can bear, letting it clear some more, then he drinks again, more slowly, this
time taking breaks to breathe and wait.
He keeps the water down. Feels the coolness of it spreading out from his stomach. It feels good,
and he notices again how warm it is in this place, but especially in this house. The air is stuffy and
oppressive, tasting of the dust that covers everything. His arms are filthy with it just from leaning
against the counter.
He begins to feel slightly better, slightly stronger. He drinks again, and then again, until the roaring
thirst is finally satisfied. When he stands up fully this time, he does so without feeling dizzy.
The sun through the back window is bright and clear. He looks around the kitchen. It's definitely
his old one, which his mother never stopped complaining about being too small, even after they
moved to America, where kitchens tended to be big enough to seat a family of elephants around the
breakfast nook. Then again, in his mother's eyes, everything in England compared unfavorably to
America, and why shouldn't it?
After what England had done to them.
He hasn't thought about it, really thought about it, for years. There was no reason to. Why dwell on
your worst memory? Not if life had moved on, in a brand-new place, so many new things to learn, so
many new people to meet.
And though it had been terrible, his brother had survived, hadn't he? There had been problems, of
course, as they watched to see how bad any neurological damage might be as he grew, but his brother
had lived and was usually a charming, functional, happy little kid, despite any difficulties.
Though there had been that unthinkable period when they all thought the worst, when they all
looked at Seth and while saying over and over that they didn't blame him, still seemed to think –
He pushes it out of his mind, swallowing away the ache in his throat. He looks out toward the
darkened sitting room and wonders what he's supposed to do here.
Is there a goal? Something to solve?
Or is he just supposed to stay here forever?
Is that what hell is? Trapped forever, alone, in your worst memory?
It makes a kind of sense.
The bandages don't, though, smudged with dark, dusty stains but stuck fast to his body in an
arrangement that covers all the wrong parts. And for that matter, the water – now running almost clear
– doesn't make sense either. Why satisfy his thirst if this is a punishment?
He still can't hear anything. No machinery, no human voices, no vehicles, nothing. Just the running
of the water, the sound of which is so comforting, he can't quite bring himself to turn it off.
He's surprised to feel his stomach rumbling. Emptied twice of all its contents, he realizes that it's
hungry, and rather than give in to the fear that this causes – because what do you eat in hell? – he
almost automatically opens the nearest cabinet.
The shelves are filled with plates and cups, less dusty because shut away, but still with an air of
abandonment. The cabinet next to it has better glasses and the good china, which he recognizes, most
but not all of it surviving the shipment to America. He moves quickly on, and in the next cabinet, there
is finally food. Bags of desiccated pasta, molding boxes of rice that crumble under his touch, a jar of
sugar that's hardened into a single lump that resists the poking of his fingers. Further searching
reveals cans of food, some of which are rusted over, others bulging alarmingly, but a few that look
okay. He takes out one of chicken noodle soup.
He recognizes the brand. It's one that he and Owen used to be unable to get enough of, used to ask
their mother to buy over and over again –
He stops. The memory is a dangerous one. He can feel himself teetering again, an abyss of
confusion and despair looking right back up at him, threatening to swallow him if he so much as
glances at it.
That can be for later, he tells himself. You're hungry. Everything else can wait.
Even thinking it, he doesn't believe it, but he forces himself to read the can again. "Soup," he says,
his voice still little more than a croak but better now, after the water. "Soup," he says again, more
strongly.
He starts opening drawers. He finds a can opener – rusty and stiff, but usable – in the first one and
lets out a small "Ha!" of triumph.
It takes him seventeen tries to get the first cut into the top of the can.
"Goddammit!" he shouts, though his throat isn't quite up to shouting yet and he has to cough it away.
But at last there's an opening, one he can work with. His hands are aching from the simple act of
twisting a can opener, and there's a terrible moment when he thinks he's going to be too weak and
tired to get any further. But the frustration drives him on and eventually, agonizingly so, there's enough
of an opening to drink out of.
He tips the can back into his mouth. The soup has gelatinized and tastes heavily of iron, but it also
tastes of chicken noodle, a flavor he's suddenly so grateful for that he starts laughing as he's slurping
down the noodles.
Then he also senses that he's crying a bit more, too.
He finishes the can and sets it down with a firm thud.
Stop this, he thinks. Pull yourself together. What do you need to do here? What's the next thing
to do? He stands a little straighter. What would Gudmund do?
And then, for the first time in this place, Seth smiles, small and fleeting, but a smile.
"Gudmund would have a piss," he croaks.
Because that is indeed what he needs to do next.