The Shuddering

by Ania Ahlborn

a breath. “Ryan didn’t tell me…”

Feeling the sadness waft off her friend like waves

shoulders. Stepping over to the window, she parted the slats of the blinds to look outside—nothing but night. “I guess,” she said after a moment, tossing a look at him over her shoulder. He was throwing cushions onto the floor, their bed a foldout couch that would have her hunchbacked and sore by morning. She had been irked when Ryan had led them to the farthest room down the hall, away from everyone else, parking them in a room that was more a makeshift library than it was meant for guests, but she’d held her tongue. She hadn’t mentioned that it seemed like they were being quarantined from the rest of the group, doubting that if Sawyer had come alone he’d have been stationed so far from everyone else. Sawyer hadn’t mentioned their room assignment either, and April wondered if he simply hadn’t noticed or was keeping quiet like she was. “It just seems like something you would have told me,” she said, stepping across the room to grab the can of soda while Sawyer unfolded the bed, the stiff metal springs creaking in the quiet of the room. She cracked the can open and turned away from him, her gaze scanning the spines of hardback books

her eyes shut, one ear against the pillow, her palm

catching her by the snout so he could look her in the eyes, then snapped his fingers and pointed her