06-04-2019, 01:57 PM
A fresh swell of puzzlement crinkled his eyes at the answer. Of course the room was still there. Because cellars didn’t generally go anywhere other than where they’d been put. It took only a second of considering the statement’s superfluousness to sour perplexity into suspicion that he was being made fun of. Inexpertly, awkwardly, as if Jude’s native tongue were one lacking normal inflections of sarcasm and the accent he brought to his English meant the expected overtones of “you idiot, rooms don’t go anywhere” were nowhere to be found.
But he continued. Leaving. Good. That meant it would be Near on his own again. Near and the dog and the staticky radio drone and the gaping chasm where what he was supposed to do from here should have been. What were the possible routes he had considered, after he realized that The Reaches weren’t the answer to anything and never would be? Before the kid showed up? Stick around indefinitely, try to sell the place, abandon it and don’t look back? Courtland Farr, complicating the calculated simplicity of his son’s life from beyond the grave. Good, Near thought, the shell of the word with none of the looking-forward-to-being-able-to-concentrate-on-his-thoughts-again relief that ought to have propped it up.
Aware that Jude was watching him, he arranged himself like he might be about to stand -- empty hand flat against the floor, knees bent. He pushed off once, then decided better of it and just stayed down, asked, “So. What was that, before?” with a note less of sincere curiosity than a resignation to the necessity of asking.
But he continued. Leaving. Good. That meant it would be Near on his own again. Near and the dog and the staticky radio drone and the gaping chasm where what he was supposed to do from here should have been. What were the possible routes he had considered, after he realized that The Reaches weren’t the answer to anything and never would be? Before the kid showed up? Stick around indefinitely, try to sell the place, abandon it and don’t look back? Courtland Farr, complicating the calculated simplicity of his son’s life from beyond the grave. Good, Near thought, the shell of the word with none of the looking-forward-to-being-able-to-concentrate-on-his-thoughts-again relief that ought to have propped it up.
Aware that Jude was watching him, he arranged himself like he might be about to stand -- empty hand flat against the floor, knees bent. He pushed off once, then decided better of it and just stayed down, asked, “So. What was that, before?” with a note less of sincere curiosity than a resignation to the necessity of asking.