The Boy in the Gray Hoodie

22...

22…

Somehow—and I have no idea how—the two of us managed to find a road. We had been walking for about an hour, maybe longer, when the sound of a semi-truck’s horn blasted through the air. Roy nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard it. I felt really bad for him, even though I was laughing.

            “That was loud,” he said, his hands pressed over his ears. I nodded, clutching my empty stomach as I snickered uncontrollably.

            “The look on your face,” I choked, pointing at him.

            “It scared me,” he said, looking hurt. “Why is that funny?”

            I straightened, sobering up immediately. “It’s not.” I said. “It’s not funny at all. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I asked, putting my hand on his arm.

            He shook his head, his entire upper body moving with it, since he refused to uncover his ears. “It hurt,” he informed me. “It was loud.”

            “I know,” my sober façade cracked a little bit. “I’m sorry.”

            “And then you laughed…” he looked completely confused.

            “It was just—well, when your eyes got all huge—and then you jumped and started to run away—and you tripped—and made that sound—I just—I can’t—” I was laughing uncontrollably again. “It was just so funny, I’m sorry,” I wheezed, unable to meet his questioning gaze.

            “You’re doing it again,” he mumbled.

            “I know, I’m sorry,”

            “But it’s not funny,” he insisted.

            “I know,” I cried. My sides were starting to hurt.

            “I’m all muddy.” He lamented, gazing down at his damp shirt and pants.

            “Oh god, Roy, stop,” I gasped and fell back, leaning against the ashen white trunk of an aspen tree. “You’re making me laugh harder!”

            He slowly lowered his hands from his ears, confusion still contorting his face in a way that I found ridiculously comical. “What was that noise?” he asked.

            “It was just a truck,” I squeaked.

            “What’s a truck?” he asked.

            I sighed, the last of my laughter dying away. “Oh yeah,” I said, biting my lip. “I forgot you don’t know things.”

            “I don’t like it when you laugh at me like that,” he said. The wounded look in his eyes made me feel immediate guilt.

I swallowed and nodded. “I’m really sorry. I won’t laugh.” I said. He’d done something truly hilarious, but he’d done it because he was scared. And he was scared because he didn’t understand. I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy.

            “That’s okay,” he shrugged, sniffing quietly.

            “You know that noise is a good thing, right?” I asked him after a moment of awkward silence.

            He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

            “A truck means you’re near a road. We can catch a ride into town and call Aunt Pam to come pick us up.” I told him, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the origin of the noise that had frightened him so badly, he’d gone flying into the brush.