"Zenna Henderson - Holding Wonder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Henderson Zenna)

The next morning Vincent crept into school with all the sun gone out. He moved
like someone in a dream and got farther and farther away. Before morning
recess came, I took his temperature. It was normal. But he certainly wasn't.
At recess the rapid outflow of children left him stranded in his seat, his
pinched face turned to the window, his unfinished work in front of him, his
idle pencil in the hand that curved up over the side of his head.

"Vincent!" I called, but there was no sign he even heard me. "Vincent!" He
drew a sobbing breath and focused his eyes on me slowly. "Yes, ma'am?" He wet
his dry lips.

"What is the matter?" I asked. "Where do you feel bad?"

"Bad?" His eyes unfocused again and his face slowly distorted into a crying
mask. With an effort he smoothed it out again. "I'm not the one. It's-it's-"
He leaned his shaking chin in the palm of his hand and steadied his elbow on
the top of his desk. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fingers against
his mouth.

"Vincent!" I went to him and touched his head lightly.

With a little shudder and a sob, he turned and buried his face against me.

"Oh, Teacher! Teacher!" A quick look out the window showed me that all the
students were down in the creek bed building sand forts. Eight-year-old pride
is easily bruised. I led Vincent up to my desk and took him onto my lap. For a
while we sat there, my cheek pressed to his head as I rocked silently. His
hair was spiky against my face and smelled a little like a baby chick's
feathers.

"He's afraid! He's afraid!" He finally whispered, his eyes tight shut. "The
other one is dead. It's broken so it can't come back. He's afraid! And the
dead one keeps looking at him with blood on his mouth! And he can't come down!
His hands are bleeding! He hit the walls wanting to get out. But there's no
air outside!"

"Vincent," I went on rocking, "have you been telling yourself stories until
you believe them?"

"No!" He buried his face against my shoulder, his body tense. "I know! I know!
I can hear him! He screamed at first, but now he's too scared. Now he-'
Vincent stilled on my lap. He lifted his face-listening. The anguish slowly
smoothed away. "It's gone again! He must go to sleep. Or unconscious. I don't
hear him all the time."
"What was he saying?" I asked, caught up in his-well, whatever it was.
"I don't know." Vincent slid from my lap, his face still wary: "I don't know
his language."

"But you said-" I protested. "How do you know what he's feeling if you don't
even know-"