After All, the Window Is So Small

Does a relatively free teaching environment really make children more hands-on capable...

It's a bit too capable, though.

This feels like hiding in a dorm in high school playing on your phone, hearing the door open, and realizing it's your roommate who skipped class.

The biggest problem is actually explaining to your roommate where the phone came from...

Hope sat back down on the bed without moving a muscle, pulling the sheet back down to cover what was underneath. "I can't find my pen, so I was checking under the bed."

"Need any help?"

"No, probably dropped it on the road yesterday. Why are you here... uh, like this?"

Paul didn't say anything. Hope followed his gaze—he was staring at the chain locking Hope in place.

"They... just keep you like this?" Paul asked.

After all, it felt more like a prisoner than a patient... Hope still remembered what Wilbur said yesterday:

"If the residents of Dunwich start running, we'll have to burn the boats and fight to the death."

Hope wasn't sure what that meant... kill himself... or sacrifice the remaining residents... or both...

Neither was something Hope wanted to see.

"I sometimes... lose my mind." Hope said, choosing his words carefully. "I might... do some strange things... This is for my own good..."

"Really?"

"Of course... it's a necessary safety measure. I have no reason to lie."

"Then what about the injuries on your body?"

Injuries?

Hope looked at himself.

Sitting on the bed, Paul probably couldn't see the leg problem... same for the palm wounds from climbing the ladder—he couldn't see those... so it must be the arms, with some unhealed rose scratches.

"You know Old Williams has a rose garden, right?" Hope said truthfully. "I got into a fight with Wilbur. Don't worry, he's not better off than me."

"Why did you fight?" Paul frowned.

"Little Brick. I still don't know his name, just Brick... the youngest son of the siblings." Hope tweaked the facts slightly. "He was following us. Wilbur wanted to teach him a lesson, and I disagreed."

Paul seemed a bit suspicious. He blinked, was silent for two seconds, then jumped down from the roof, bending his knees slightly to absorb the impact, landing perfectly.

The sound of his landing made Hope afraid it would wake the person under the bed—that would be awkward.

"I've always known Wilbur is no good. He's the son of a demon... Sorry, I didn't mean you."

"It's fine. But you still haven't said why you came?"

Paul reached out, a scrap of newspaper in his palm. "I came to give you this."

The one that fell yesterday... He actually guessed it was mine... Makes sense, I was so obviously conflicted back then. Good thing Wilbur's attention was on the paper.

Hope froze for a moment, then laughed. "Thanks."

Paul smiled too, but it didn't last long, because Hope quickly frowned. "This is too dangerous for you..."

"You have to trust my athletic talent. This is something even North Oak University valued."

"What if they find out?"

"Find out who? Wilbur and Lavinia? I tried visiting them directly and they wouldn't let me in. Relax, Wilbur and Lavinia aren't here. I saw them both leave."

"But Old Whateley..."

Paul didn't catch the disrespect in Hope's tone toward his grandfather at all. "What can he do even if he finds out? Dad said last time he saw Old Whateley, the guy could barely stand."

But he might be a cult priest. Wilbur's spells might have been taught by him...

Still, he probably doesn't have clairvoyance, occult pinhole cameras, or "Observation Haki" type abilities.

Otherwise, I'd have been caught yesterday, and they wouldn't have locked me up so tight.

Hope deliberately kept his face stern. "But he might tell Wilbur, and then Wilbur could call the police. The officers might track you down based on some details—details you wouldn't notice yourself."

"It's not that serious..."

"Don't gamble on luck."

"Fine." Paul sighed. "You're right. I'll be more careful next time."

Not "I won't do it again" but "I'll be more careful," huh...

Hope knew that no matter how much more he said, it wouldn't make much difference. He nodded. "Anyway, thanks."

Paul smiled, looking like he'd come just for that "thank you."

"I didn't look at what's inside. Whether you wrote a love letter in there or cut out a picture of a pretty girl from the newspaper, I know nothing."

A love letter or...

Hope couldn't help but laugh. He felt a familiar sensation—joking around with a friend, trading barbs and teasing.

He played along, spouting nonsense: "Actually, I wrote down your little secret before I lost my memory."

Paul's smile vanished. He stared at Hope in shock: "Really?"

There really was a little secret?

"Fake. I don't know what's inside either."

"You don't know?"

"I don't."

"Then that means it could be real, right?"

Huh?

Paul suddenly reached for the paper in Hope's hand. Hope pulled his hand back, dodging easily.

Slow speed. Probably left me time to react...

Realizing Paul was joking, Hope said with a laugh: "If you move again, I'll throw it out. It's windy outside—I can hear it. Let's see if you find it first, or the wind blows it into some lucky person's hands."

"Don't!" Paul blurted out.

He covered his mouth in regret, realizing he'd forgotten to control his volume. Old Whateley might have heard.

"Where's Old Whateley's room? Close?" Paul asked quietly.

"I don't know... I forgot." Hope shook his head.

His expression changed as footsteps rang out openly from outside.

"Thump, thump, thump."

Coming closer from a distance. Climbing the stairs, probably.

"Are you sure Wilbur left?"

"Sure. He couldn't be back this fast." Paul stared at the door: "Old Whateley can still move?"

"I thought he was about to die." Hope said: "Don't just stand there. Get out of here."

Paul reached up, trying to grab the ceiling boards to pull himself up. But he found that while he could jump down from there, he couldn't reach the ceiling from below.

He stepped onto Hope's bed, but that was still a distance from the hole.

"Is there anything I can stand on?" Paul's eyes swept the room.

The room was this small—everything in it was laid out plain: a bed that doubled as a wardrobe, a wooden chair with half its back broken off, a nightstand, a goddamn flush toilet in the bedroom, and a small wooden bucket.

The bucket was too small.

Paul grabbed the nightstand, trying to move it under the hole.

His face flushed red. He let go, panting, and whispered: "Damn, this thing's nailed down! Is there anything else?"

Paul looked at the flush toilet.

Hope shook his head. He didn't know this place any better than Paul did: "Don't get any ideas about that thing. And it's too late anyway."

He pointed at the door.

The footsteps had stopped. Now came the sound of someone fiddling with the lock.

Paul... he glanced under the bed.