It was quiet for a moment and the night air was filled with those singing insects again.
“Once, I took this social studies class,” I told him. “In it, we read this story about this woman attacked in an alleyway in New York City.” I shook my head. “I can’t remember the particulars. Anyway, the gist of it was that many people watched the attack from their windows and assumed someone else called the police and the woman died there, waiting for help.”
Dingane lifted his shoulders in acknowledgement, his beautiful, tanned hands lifted as if in explanation.
I remembered the visions of dead children again and turned my head to avoid the humiliation of Dingane seeing the tears fall. I twisted back when he nudged my foot with his.
“It’s not a weakness,” he stated simply, his arms folded tightly against his torso.
“What’s not?” I blubbered, wiping my face with dirty hands.
“Fear, sadness. They’re not weaknesses. They are overpowering, defining emotions. They make you human, Sophie.”
“They are signs of defect,” I told him, reverting back to curt Sophie.
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Because I — because...”
“Let me guess. Because you are not proud of yourself? Because you despise who you are? Because, if you show these emotions, they acknowledge those thoughts?”
I was deadly silent for five minutes at least. “Yes,” I stated, breaking the absence of sound.
“Do something about it.”
“There’s nothing to do. I’m lost.”
“Bullshit. You don’t really believe that. You want to stick with what’s easy for you. You foresee the amount of work it would take to transform yourself and you’re too frightened to embrace the challenge. Now, that, Sophie Price, is a real weakness.”
Dingane stood and I watched him check each bed, traveling stealthily from one to the other and I hated how right he was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dingane and I were relieved by Ruth and Solomon around eight in the morning after breakfast, as promised. I was so exhausted, but the idea of sleeping on my sheets after being covered in blood and dirt gave me the chills. I wanted, no needed, to wash away the previous night.
“I have to shower,” I told Dingane.
His eyes bugged slightly. “Oh, all right. I was going to as well. Would you like to go first?”
“No,” I told him, “you go ahead. I’ll gather all my things.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll knock on your door when it’s free.
“Thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Dingane knocked and I answered.
He popped in his head and his hair was still wet and clung to his neck. I could smell his soap and I inhaled it.
“All yours,” he said, moving to leave before stopping short. “Uh, sleep well.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling slightly.
I approached the shower with hesitation knowing there would be bugs this time but was surprised again to see it was entirely clear. “That’s odd,” I said out loud.