The Invisible Boy
Reggie Chamberlain-King
They’re playing The Invisible Boy again. It’s obvious from their keen attention. They’re too quiet. They’re not listening to me, but for the tell-tale noise that will give him away: a scuff, a shuffle, a sneeze... a sneeze would do for him. I can see it in their bastarding little faces, their eyes fixed on me as though they’re listening, but their ears are cocked, alert to something else... a pin drops. I could follow the twitch of Quinn’s red, flexed lobe or the subtle twist of McKiernan’s neck and I could sniff out The Invisible Boy. But I don’t.
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