CIX

"You know, Henry?" No, Henry most definitely doesn't know. "I was thinking…"

He tries to take a deep breath without her noticing and rather concentrate on the fragrance of the wet earth after the morning rain as they advance.

"What kind of girl do you like?"

The question takes him by surprise, since he has never asked himself that.

"Oh. I remember," she admits. "You didn't want to… Because Henry was nearby…"

"Yeah. Because what I wanted to tell you was about him," Max explains.

"About…Henry?"

Max nods. "I… Well, before Mike… I was wondering… You feel nothing for him? For Henry?"

Eleven cocks her head, her brow furrowed.

"Your relationship with Henry"—her friend continues—"is not… usual. He doesn't seem to take on a father or older brother role with you." Her confusion must be evident to Max, and that is why she adds: "He doesn't care about your grades, he doesn't scold you beyond putting yourself in danger, he doesn't seek to educate you… And… he seems to be extremely possessive of you."

She instantly tenses. "He does it—"

"Because he wants to protect you, yes, I know, I know," Max assures her dryly. "It's not my intention to criticize him, not at all. Actually, what I mean is… you, too, don't treat him as if he were an authority figure. And although I am not an expert, I think that you should have a certain respect for your legal guardian, right?"

"But I respect him," Eleven contradicts. "I—"

"The thing is"—Max insists—"that you guys act… like you're equals. While he has reactions that… I'm not going to lie to you, they are scary"—Eleven knows she's referring to the time she witnessed their training session—"you can stop him. I couldn't manage to do that with Neil nor can I do it with Billy, and certainly there are few times when I manage to do so with my mother."

This bothers her. "Your family should listen to you," she points out. "Henry and I—"

"That's precisely what I'm talking about, Eleven." Max is frustrated; she perceives it in her tone of voice and in the way she accentuates her gestures. "Maybe in an ideal world families do listen to their youngest members. But right now, in the 20th century, no, Eleven, that doesn't happen."

"But it should—"

"But it doesn't happen," Max emphasizes. "And I don't know if it will happen in the 21st century, or in the 22nd century, but right now, no. And Henry doesn't just listen to you, no, he even listens (although with less predisposition, okay, that's true, but it's still a lot) to the people you appreciate, if you make it clear to him that you do. And that… You don't see that every day."

He figures it's not a good idea to tell her that he has zero interest in answering her question if he wants the girl to continue moving forward on her own. And yes, he could simply make her walk with his abilities, but he prefers to save his energy in case something goes wrong and he is forced to eliminate potential witnesses.

"Let me think about it," he says.

"I don't feel like that's always the case," Eleven replies. "For example, he's never liked Mike… He tries, I know he does, but he just doesn't like him and…" Max's look is pleading. "What…?"

Her friend takes a deep breath. Looks at the ceiling. To the window. Finally, she looks back at her. "I just want you… to consider that you and Henry seem to have a world apart from everyone else. A world where only you and him exist, and everyone else, everything else comes later."

Henry stops—Angela imitates him—once they have finally reached the place he had planned: an extremely dense part of the forest—the central point, if he will. He turns to look at her. Her face looks expectant, eager to hear his response; her lips tremble slightly, trying to suppress a smile.

Considering that the girl has just a few minutes left to live—even if she doesn't know it—Henry decides to please her with the first thing that comes to mind: "I like… kind women."

Now Angela is the one taken by surprise. "Kind?"

Henry raises his eyebrows and sees her thoughts in a second:

I thought he would say "blonde, light-eyed, attractive…"

The girl, however, recovers instantly; although somewhat forced, her smile comes back. "I thought you would name… physical characteristics. But yes, of course, I understand: I greatly admire women like that, like Helen Keller, for example; I aspire to be like her… At my previous school I did a…"

Henry doesn't listen to her. Because he can only think of the words that have escaped him, of the words that refer to someone who is not Angela or Helen Keller or absolutely anyone else than the only person who matters to him.

The only truly kind person, without ulterior motives, he knows. His equal. The only person who means anything to him in a world populated by scum.

And she… She wouldn't want this.

His fists clench at the thought. It would be so easy, truth be told: to murder her here, to cause her pain a thousand times worse than what she has caused Eleven.

However…

He looks at Angela, then. He runs his eyes over the half-healed scar over the bridge of her nose, the most beautiful thing that—in his opinion—she has…

The most beautiful thing, indeed, because it reminds him of Eleven.

"It's just…" Eleven mutters. "I just can't help but think…" And she hates saying it, she hates putting it into words, she hates being like Papa and comparing two very different people, but what option does she have but the truth? "Henry… He would have protected me," she says at last in a low voice. "He… wouldn't have left my side."

The sadness in Max's eyes is evident.

"Angela," Henry calls softly. The girl looks at him with surprise. "I—"

He wants to tell her that he despises her. Tell her to never speak to him again. To run for her life. That she disgusts him, that she is lucky to still be alive in his presence and that, if it weren't for Eleven, her bones would already be dust and her eyes, nothing more than a bloody pulp, but…

But she misunderstands him.

Henry barely catches a glimpse of the intention in her mind before it happens.

She doesn't know when this has become a certainty: but it is just that, an irreplaceable, unbreakable certainty.

"He… is always on my side." Eleven smiles despite the tears. "He would never… Never let me down."

"Angela, don't—"

The words are left hanging.

Because Angela has stood on her tiptoes, put her arms around his neck like two vines of an invasive plant, and planted a kiss on his mouth.

Henry has the urge to break her bones now more than ever. However, since he has already decided not to do so, he holds back.

When Angela pulls away from him after just a second—which seems to Henry to have lasted a lifetime—her smile is wide.

"I… I feel the same way," she tells him, biting her lower lip and rocking from side to side.

Henry watches her in silence for a few moments. To tell the truth, the situation has left him speechless.

"Would you like to come to my house?" the girl then asks him.

He recognizes the invitation for what it is, of course. Nonetheless, before he can respond, she beats him to it again: "Not today, oh, no, I'm not… like that," she assures him with a wink. "But next Friday… My parents won't be home…" She runs her index finger against the fabric of his shirt, at the height of his chest, in what she must believe is a sensual gesture. "And, well, I wouldn't want to be home alone…"

Henry calms his expression. His hands shake with rage, with disgust, but he refuses to show it.

"It's getting late," he tells her in the calmest tone he can muster. "I'll take you home."

"Okay, but don't forget my invitation, okay?" Another wink, as if the previous one had not been clear enough.

With one last smile, the girl turns her back on him.

Henry takes a moment for himself before following her. He observes her in silence: her blonde hair fluttering with each step, the premeditated jumps—because he knows them to be so—to appear innocent and highlight her femininity.

Angela is alive thanks to Eleven.

And her ingratitude, her ignorance, her cruelty cannot go unpunished.