Red’s Interlude

Moron.

He did it again.

Set me on the cracked vinyl tractor seat and walked away like the field would keep breathing without him in it.

Like four police cars and an unmarked sedan were reasons to leave me behind instead of reasons to keep me close.

Sagen motioned for him to come.

Tomas looked down at me.

Hesitated.

Then decided he wouldn’t be gone long.

That is how it always starts.

Daylight helps. I’ll give him that.

Sun warms the tractor seat beneath me. Tall grass moves with the wind. The sky stretches blue and empty in every direction.

The field looks safe.

That’s how it gets you.

That’s how they get you.

Being alone isn’t about darkness.

It’s about quiet.

It’s about no one being close enough to hear the wrong sound.

I remain where Tomas left me.

Moving makes it worse.

Moving reminds me that once, I was moved without permission.

Lifted.

Opened.

Studied.

Hands separating what belonged together.

That’s when things get taken apart.

That’s when you stop belonging to yourself.

The memory disappears when I reach for it.

All that remains is the certainty.

Collectors don’t rush.

They wait for gaps.

For moments like this—when someone thinks they have time. When a boy decides the distance between a tractor and a farmhouse isn’t far enough to count.

Collectors don’t need noise.

They don’t need force.

They need you unattended.

I listen.

The tractor engine ticks as it cools. Metal contracts. Grass whispers against the mower blades.

At the house, car doors close.

Boots cross gravel.

Men speak too quietly for me to understand.

Normal sounds pretending to be harmless.

I count them anyway.

I count everything now.

Footsteps.

Voices.

Heartbeats that aren’t mine.

The distance between Tomas and the hands that might reach me first.

He looks back.

Once.

Then again.

He thinks that counts.

It doesn’t.

Tomas doesn’t understand what alone means. Not really. He thinks it’s physical. Thinks if I can still see him—or whatever it is I do instead of seeing—I’m fine.

He doesn’t feel the pull.

The way attention bends toward me when no one is watching.

That’s why Collectors mark places first.

Schools.

Hallways.

Corners where stories don’t line up.

They leave signs to learn who notices.

To learn what is guarded.

To learn what isn’t.

I remember hands.

Careful ones.

Someone who didn’t leave.

Someone who knew the rules before they were ever spoken.

The memory slips when I try to hold it, as though it isn’t ready to be caught.

Courtney.

The name makes something inside me ache.

Forgetting is worse than fear.

Fear has edges.

Forgetting only erases.

Tomas will come back.

He always does.

Breathing hard. Apologetic. Acting as though returning repairs the space he left behind.

Maybe this time it will.

One day, it won’t.

One day, he’ll step away at the wrong moment and learn what being alone really costs.

And when that happens, it won’t be me they’re afraid of.

It will be the boy who finally understands what he was supposed to be guarding.