The car smells like rain. Not because it is raining outside—it isn't—but because the seats are damp from when it rained earlier, and the air carries it in, heavy and wet. I sit in the back, strapped into my seat. The straps press into my shoulders. I don't mind the pressure, but I don't like the sound they make when I move. Click-click. Mother is in the front passenger seat. She stares out the window with her arms folded across her stomach, like she's holding herself together. Her face is pale except for the red around her eyes. She hasn't spoken since we left the building. Father drives. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. His jaw moves sometimes, like he's chewing on words but never lets them out. The engine hums beneath us. I watch the world pass by outside my window. Trees, cars, houses—all moving backward. I count the telephone poles we pass. One. Two. Three. Four. Counting is easier than listening to the silence.
The silence feels loud. Not like sound, but like weight. It fills the car, pushing on my ears and chest. I don't know why it feels heavier than when people talk. Mother wipes her face with her sleeve. The motion catches my eye. I look at her reflection in the window. Her lips move slightly, but no sound comes out. Father notices. His voice finally breaks the quiet. "Stop crying," he says, low and flat. Mother flinches. "I'm not—" Her voice cracks, and she stops. I look at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes meet mine for half a second. They look darker than before. He looks away quickly. I look back at the window. A drop of water slides down the glass, leftover from the earlier rain. It moves slowly, leaving a thin trail. I watch it reach the bottom, then disappear. Another drop starts. I watch that one too. Behind me, in the trunk area, something rattles when we hit a bump. It's a soft sound, but it fills the car for a moment. Then it's gone. I miss the ticking clock from the doctor's office. This car doesn't have a clock sound. Only hums, breaths, and the kind of silence that feels like it's waiting for something to break.
Father exhales through his nose, a hard sound. His hands flex on the steering wheel. "We'll… we'll find another doctor," he mutters. "Someone who doesn't talk like she's already given up on him." Mother doesn't answer. "Did you hear me, Elara?" His voice sharpens, each word cutting through the air. "Yes, I heard you," she whispers. "Then say something." Her head turns toward him slowly. "What do you want me to say, Dorian? That she's wrong? That he's fine?" Her voice trembles. "You saw him in there. You—" She stops herself. Looks back out the window. I keep watching the water trail on the glass, but my ears listen. They always do, even when I don't want them to. Father's jaw tightens. "He's our son. We can't just…" His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "We can't just let him be like this." Mother's breath hitches. She turns slightly in her seat to look back at me. I meet her eyes. They're wet again, shiny like the window. She smiles at me. It's small, shaky.
"It's okay, baby," she whispers. "Mommy's here." I blink at her once. Her smile fades. She turns back around. No one talks after that. The car keeps moving, and I keep counting poles. Nine. Ten. Eleven. My stomach feels strange. Not bad, not good—just… strange. Like something is inside me, pressing against my ribs. I don't know what to call it. The hum of the engine changes as Father slows for a stoplight. The car behind us honks too soon, and Father slams his hand against the steering wheel. "Goddammit!" I flinch. It's small—just my shoulders jerking once—but it's enough. Mother gasps softly. "Dorian…" she says, like his name is a warning and a plea at the same time. Father glances at me in the mirror. His face softens for a moment, then hardens again. He looks away. The light turns green. We move forward. I stop counting poles. I start counting breaths instead. One. Two. Three.
Father doesn't speak again. Mother doesn't either. The silence in the car becomes a living thing. It presses on the windows, fills the cracks in the seats, crawls into my ears. It feels like if I opened my mouth, it would crawl inside me too. The sky outside is gray. Not the heavy kind that means rain, but the thin, pale gray that makes everything look flat. Colorless. We pass a playground. Children are running in circles, their bright jackets flashing as they spin and laugh. Their mouths are open wide, but through the glass, I can't hear them. They look like they're laughing in a dream. Mother sees them too. I know because her shoulders shake once. Not like laughter. The car keeps moving. Street signs, houses, and cars blur together. Father's eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, unblinking. I wonder what he's thinking. What she's thinking. What people think when they're quiet like this. I try to remember if I've ever been quiet for a reason, or if quiet is just what I am. We turn onto a narrower road.
Trees hang over it, their branches bare and black against the pale sky. The car's headlights flicker through them, creating shadows that jump across my legs. I watch them. They're more interesting than anything else. Mother finally moves. She reaches back without looking and places her hand on my knee. Her fingers are cold. I look at her hand, then at her face in the reflection of the window. Her lips are pressed tight, but her eyes close for a second. Then she pulls her hand back. Father exhales again, long and slow, as if he's letting go of something but doesn't really let it go at all. When we turn into our driveway, the tires crunch over gravel. The house is there, small and square, with its dark windows staring back at us like eyes. No one says, "We're home." The engine cuts off. The sudden silence is sharper than the one inside the moving car. Mother opens her door and gets out. Father stays still for a moment, gripping the wheel, then follows. I wait for someone to unbuckle me. The straps dig into my shoulders. I don't mind.
Mother unbuckles me. Her fingers are gentle but clumsy, fumbling over the release. The belt clicks, and I am free. She lifts me out even though I can climb down myself. I don't resist. The air outside is cold and damp. It smells like wet dirt and metal. Father unlocks the front door and pushes it open. The hinges creak. Inside, the house is dim. Curtains are drawn, letting only thin strips of light through. The living room is small, with a couch against one wall, a coffee table covered in magazines, and a silent television reflecting the room back at itself. Mother carries me to the couch and sets me down. She kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees.
"Do you want some juice, sweetheart?" she asks. Her voice is soft, but it wavers like a candle flame. I blink once. She waits for a word, a nod, anything. When I give her nothing, she smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Okay," she whispers, standing up. She disappears into the kitchen. Father shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto a chair. He doesn't sit. He paces. I follow him with my eyes. Back and forth. Back and forth. The kitchen faucet turns on. Water runs. Then stops. Mother returns with a small cup of orange juice. She sets it on the table in front of me. "Here you go."
I don't reach for it. She straightens slowly. Her gaze drifts to Father, who's still pacing. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor," she says. He stops. Looks at her. "What do you want me to do, Elara? Sit down and pretend everything's fine?" "No," she says quietly. "I just… I just don't want him to see you like this." "Him?" Father's voice rises slightly. He gestures toward me without looking directly at me. "He doesn't see anything, remember? That's what she said, isn't it? He doesn't feel anything." Mother flinches like he hit her. "Don't say that."
"Why not? It's the truth!" His voice is louder now. "We sit in that office and listen to some stranger tell us our son is broken and you just—" "Don't call him that!" The words explode out of her, sharp and raw. The sound cuts through the house like glass breaking. I blink at her. She's breathing hard, her face blotchy with anger and grief. Father stares at her, stunned for a second, before his mouth twists like he's holding back more words, worse ones. The silence that follows isn't the same as before. It's heavier. Waiting. I look at the juice cup. A tiny bubble clings to the side of the glass. It trembles.