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They don’t know what they’re looking at or what to do about it, but they feel that caveman compulsion to stand there and scrutinize.”
We always tell the kids that if they see something funny, look away. Ignore it. But we never worried too much. The Blanks never act like this. They haven’t acted like this in years.
They’re standing in the trees, barely ten feet away, outlined by the Stannards’ backyard light. There are more of them than I’ve ever seen before. Their tall, still shadows stand out against the trees; their dead eyes reflect yellow in the houselights. All of them stare at this window—all of them stare at my son.
Nothing bad happens if you leave them alone, if you just pretend they don’t exist.
When you don’t have anyone left, you still have your family.
“He should have known better,” Steven whispers, then rephrases. “We should have taught him better.” “Mistakes” is too small a word for the things parents do.
“Our daughter,” I hiss, “is not going to grow up without a father because you wanted to pop the hood and look at the engine! I am not going to be a single parent because you wanted to do performative macho bullshit!”
because you’re not supposed to see them, no one sees them; you look away, you ignore them—everyone knows you ignore them; as long as you don’t see them, everything is okay; as long as you don’t notice them, you’re lucky. You’re blessed.
