Better Than People (Garnet Run 1)

Simon nodded and tried to smile.

This is your job. You’re good at this. Say something witty about old website design. Make a hardware pun. “I’ll nail the design!” “I won’t screw it up!” Hell, say anything at all.

Simon swallowed over and over, trying to clear the lump that had lodged in his throat. He reached for his water glass but it was already empty. If he could just swallow maybe he could say something.

The fear trickled in. First he wouldn’t be able to swallow, then his lungs would close like two fists strangling him slowly from the inside. He’d breathe through his nose faster and faster and try to yawn, but the yawn would stutter out at his blocked throat and make him gasp. Once he gasped he’d start to choke. Once he choked he would panic.

He tried to stay calm. Fear of the panic made the panic happen faster. He pushed back his chair and tried to drag in a breath to apologize, but it was too much effort. His vision sparkled around the edges and he bolted from the room.

Vaguely he was aware of Jack calling his name, but all he could focus on was finding a bathroom and closing himself inside it. The first door he tried was a closet and the second was an empty room. The third opened into darkness and the temperature dropped.

Simon had the wherewithal for one absurd thought about a door to Narnia before he realized he’d stumbled into the unfinished part of Charlie’s house.

The where didn’t matter so long as it was away. Simon bent at the waist and breathed through his nose. Somehow this position always let him get a fuller breath if he caught the panic early enough. He didn’t know why. A trick of the brain? The vagus nerve? Shift of his chest muscles? Whatever. He dragged in the sweet, cold air and concentrated on anything—anything—except his body’s betrayal.

The air smelled of sawdust and freshly cut wood. Dust. Soil. He could hear the wind blowing through the trees outside, so that probably meant part of the structure was open. That would explain the cold too.

Still bent over he let his arms hang, fingertips trailing over the ground. It felt like cement. Concrete? What was the difference? He’d read it once but he couldn’t remember. His breath came easier. He could taste the one bite of spaghetti he’d managed before humiliating himself. Sour tang of tomato, flat starch of pasta. Salt. Charlie wasn’t a very good cook.

Tension in his legs made him bend his knees and slowly, slowly lower himself into a squat, then onto his hands and knees. He hung his head low, breathing to a five-count slowly, deliberately, not letting himself speed up no matter how much he wanted more air. Speeding up could became hyperventilating in the space of two breaths, and hyperventilating made him black out.

Was this how he’d die someday? Alone, in the dark, in the woods?

Something soft brushed against his cheek and Simon jolted. But a rusty-metal meow sounded in the darkness, and he reached out his hand.

“Hi, Jane,” he whispered.

The cat twitched her tail against his face, then sat down on the floor next to him.

“Can I please hug you?”

He inched closer to her and tried to pull her into his lap but she skittered away with a yowl.

Typical.

“Hey, Simon?” He’d assumed if anyone came for him it would be Jack, but it was Charlie. “Are you okay?” He cleared his throat. “Tap on something if you’re okay. Okay?”

Simon knocked on the floor and tried to breathe quieter. That made his breaths slower, which made him get too little air. And that made him feel like he was choking all over again.

To hell with trying to make a good impression. He sucked in loud breaths through his nose, tears dripping onto the cement floor—concrete floor—whateverthefuck.

He heard the shuffle of Charlie taking a few steps toward him, then sitting down.

“I’m expanding. This is gonna be a woodshop. Or maybe...no, a woodshop. I like to make stuff.”

Furniture? Simon wondered. But something about the way Charlie was just talking told him he didn’t require a response.

“Bowls and cups and stuff on the lathe. Spoons. I did a lamp the other day. Kind of.”

That explained the sawdust smell.

“Jane rolls around in the sawdust and tracks it all over the house,” he went on. His voice was low and gruff and yet he said this like he’d let Jane do whatever she wanted to the house.

Being bad at naming animals might run in the Matheson family, but clearly being a total sucker for them did as well.

At her name, Jane let out a little yip.

“You in here, Jane?”

A purr began to Simon’s left.

“She’s here,” he croaked.

Jane tumbled onto her back, all four legs extended directly into Simon’s face, and he wheezed a laugh.