Page 33 of Molt

“How old?”

“Older than I should be.”

“August.”

“One hundred and seventy-four.”

I laugh. Nothing about this is funny. Still, I laugh. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me you were born in eighteen fifty-two?”

“June tenth.”

“Of course you know the fucking date.”

“I was there.”

Despite myself, another laugh slips out.

His does too. Quietly.

On the other side of the door there it is again. That feeling. Not attraction. Something deeper. Something worse.

Familiarity.

The sound of August laughing makes my chest ache.

My mind doesn’t know why but my body does.

I hate that.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor.

For a moment neither of us says anything.

Then I hear movement.

He sits down on the other side.

I can tell by the soft thump against the door. We’re sitting back-to-back with an inch of wood between us. It feels strangely intimate. I should move but I don’t.

“What was my first name?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You said I’ve had different names.”

“Yes.”

“What was the first?”

A pause.

“Lenora.”

I look down. “Why?”