I sat up. I’d been lying as still as I could, hoping to fool Joey into thinking I was asleep. But he was wide awake, staring out at the moonlit rocks outside the window.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I said.
“It sounded like a motor,” he said. “A growling noise.”
“Maybe it was a bear?”
“Look!” he grabbed my arm so tight it hurt. “The bushes moved.”
“It’s the wind.”
“I’m scared.”
“When I was a baby, if I was scared, I’d grow wings and fly away.”
He didn’t say anything.
“What about you?” I prompted. “What would you do?”
“When I was a baby…” His voice sounded tight, like he didn’t have enough air. He took a breath and tried again. “When I was a baby, I was an airplane.”
“So you already had wings.”
“Yeah.”
“When I was a baby, I was a helicopter,” I said. “My ears would grow super long and flop around and around to make the rotors.”
He gave a small snort of laughter, and his hand on my arm loosened its clutch.