Some Quiet Place

of danger. No thoughts, no fire, no beings from the other plane to disturb the normality. There is only me, my breathing, and the frantic moans of the cows.
    I shut the door.

TWO
    I’ve been told that I cried as a child. I screamed when I didn’t get my way. I laughed and pulled my mother’s hair. I got into fights with my brother. When I hear these things, it’s as if I’m listening to stories about a stranger. The little girl I see in the pictures doesn’t really look like me. The physical details are the same, of course. The wild blond hair, the blue eyes, the smooth, sun-darkened skin. But if someone else hadn’t said that the little girl was me, I wouldn’t have known. It’s not that I don’t remember being so young … I just don’t know how I became what I am now.
    There’s something missing in the girl I see in the mirror compared to the one in those pictures: a sort of soul. A light inside. Her smile is innocent. When I practice smiling, it looks puny and tight. False. Sometimes I think of it as the Caldwell mark; it’s how my entire family smiles, now.
    I have knowledge few other humans have. They are unexplained and unwarranted, these ironclad truths. Yet I don’t know everything. I may be able to see the creatures that no one else can, I may know about the other plane, and I may understand the natures of humans and animals alike, but I don’t have the one thing I should have above all else.
    I don’t know what it is to feel.
    I can’t experience the freedom of grief, the abandon of ecstasy, the release of fury. And of course I can’t be curious about these experiences.
    I don’t have the luxury of the people around me. I can’t weep, I can’t lust, I can’t cower in terror, I can’t celebrate. Not in a true sense; I’ve grown talented at the art of pretending. The only sensation I’m capable of—not an Emotion, but something physical—is a sort of … nothingness that’s always there.
    The next morning, on my way through the kitchen, I pass framed pictures of the little girl on the wall and remember those stories. I adjust the strap of my book bag, contemplating that smile for what feels like the thousandth time. The bright eyes. I turn my back on her and glance at the clock on my way out. Late again.
    Closing the screen door gently—Dad is out in the fields with the harvester but Mom is still sleeping—I attempt to put the pictures from my mind.
    It’s a cold dawn. Fog hovers over the ground. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes. In the distance I see a shadow in the fields, the form of a man. But it’s not a man. He stands there, utterly still, and the fog rolls around him. Because that is what he is. Fog. Element. Other. More. I don’t just see the Emotions that wander the world—I see everything. I don’t pause to observe; it is something I have seen many, many times before. I throw my bag onto the passenger seat of my truck and hop in.
    The engine rumbles as my truck bumps along the dirt road. It’s an ancient ’96 Chevy; I bought it with most of my babysitting money. The smell of gasoline permeates the air. I roll down the window and listen to the vehicle’s peaceful growl, feel the cool morning breeze on my face.
    But a few minutes away from the house, my awareness sharpens and the brief stillness falls away. My eyes scan the trees alongside me; I sense something. Something else otherworldly. It’s the same sensation as when Emotions are near—my nothingness strengthens, hardens, prepares. But I don’t recognize this essence.
    The minutes tick by, and I get closer to town. Nothing happens. Nothing appears. When I pull into the school parking lot the clock shows 7:59, and there’s still no reason for why my senses are tingling.
    I pull the hood of my windbreaker up over my head as I walk toward the school doors. Under my lashes I take stock of my surroundings. There are the Dorseth brothers, roughing each other up near the wall—they’re infamous for their drugs and constant suspensions. There are the cliques that I don’t take part in. And there, sitting on the wall a little ways down from the Dorseths, is …
    “Maggie,” I say, stopping. I instantly take note of the veins beneath her translucent skin, the trembling, the smudges under her eyes. Her ink-black wig shines weakly in the sun. “Maggie, you shouldn’t be here.”
    She puts a book in her bag and stands, grinning. The smile has a contrasting effect; she’s wearing so much makeup it makes her