Another night, another one of those dreams. When he went to rub his face, he was surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears, and more so to see that his hands were not actually glowing this time.
“What’s happening?” Keane whispered to himself, confused by the overwhelming grief that was boring ever deeper into his heart. He didn’t know if the heavy sentiment had been inflicted by the father or the son, but either way, he didn’t like it… It was making him cry.
He couldn’t take it. He had to talk to Brok. He had to tell him everything. Right now. It couldn’t wait till the morning. It couldn’t wait another moment. He couldn’t bear to suffer yet another night alone with his thoughts and with no sleep. He tugged urgently at the loose corner of the blanket that hung from the bed above.
“Brok… Brok!” he whispered, tormented.
Brok grunted and turned, spilling over half a bucket of popcorn onto Keane’s head. As Keane swept the kernels off him, he was baffled; he hadn’t seen Brok take anything with him when he’d climbed up there earlier.
“Are you, like, growing these in your bed now?” Keane complained, now picking out the fluffy morsels lodged in his hair.
“Sleep,” groaned Brok. “Need. Sleep.”
The broken snores followed almost immediately.
Frustrated, Keane threw a handful of popcorn back up at Brok, only to have the remaining contents of the bucket rain down on him.
“What the—? Exactly how much of this stuff do you have up there?” cried Keane, but this time there was no reply, and no snoring either. Brok was simply out cold.
Typical Brok, thought Keane. The boy could live without sustenance, without water, without people, and maybe without popcorn even, but not without his sleep. Keane actually envied Brok’s ability to slip so easily into slumber.
Since he himself possessed no such ability, and since the option of unburdening his woes upon Brok was now clearly out of the question, Keane braced himself for a third night of over-analysis and self-doubt. And dread.
His Idiot Brain was already dwelling on a particularly curious detail—a single phrase comprising six syllables, the meaning of which he felt like he should know but, for the life of him, couldn’t fathom.
“Ke-nid-akh-nay-ram,” Keane whispered to himself. What did it mean? How could it mean anything when they weren’t even real words? “Ke-nid-akh-nay-ram” he repeated a little louder, but it still made no sense.
He shook his head, giving up, and began to rearrange the bedding instead. His hands, though not luminous, slipped under the rock-like pillow automatically; the practice had become routine after just two nights. He closed his eyes.
And, immediately, the sense of dread re-materialized, but curiously, it was strongly tainted by sadness this time. It felt like something terrible was about to happen to the boy, or his father, or both. He didn’t know why he cared, since he didn’t even know these people. In fact, for all he knew, they could be just figments of his imagination. Still, for some reason, he didn’t want anything bad to happen to them. Ever.