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to the way they moved when he spoke.
    “Do you speak?” he asked.
    I licked my lips, course against my tongue and jerked my gaze away. “Of course I speak.” My face heated, and I concentrated on the couple who now swayed their hips in rhythm as they ambled down the sidewalk.
    “I couldn’t take any more either,” he said, leaning against the wall beside me, elbows nearly touching. “The long lines, the unfamiliar faces.”
    “My father’s mourning is that boring, huh?” I asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
    He cleared his throat. “No, but my father’s is excruciating.”
    My heart thudded and I flinched. I pushed a stray curl behind my ear and apologized. “I’m sorry.”
    He shrugged. “You didn’t kill him.”
    “But I—” I stammered, unsure how to apologize for assuming. “I—”
    His hand touched my arm, briefly, enough to gain my attention and send a shiver through my fingertips. “Don’t even try to apologize. I know what you mean.”
    I nodded.
    Birds continued to chirp like we were out for a picnic not hiding from the dead. The trees in front of the crematorium swayed with the ceaseless wind, just as it toyed with my hair. I tucked my hair back and wondered how to start over with this boy.
    “Who was he?” I asked.
    “Brennen Carmichal.”
    I’d seen his picture in the news reports, had heard his name, but couldn’t remember what role he played at the Alliance City Center so I said simply , “I’m sorry about your father.”
    “I thought I made it clear about apologies.” His voice carried sadness, yes, but there was something more. I turned to face him, leaning my right arm against the building so close I could feel his shirtsleeve brush my flesh when the breeze caught it.
    “So no more apologies,” I consented.
    He nodded once, stern ly, and I couldn’t decide whether I liked him or not. “He was the staff doctor at the Alliance Center.”
    I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and scrunched my eyebrows together. I remembered reading that, remembered my father saying something about the doctor just last week, but couldn’t remember what it had been. “Who are you?”
    “Cray Carmichal.” He extended his hand to shake mine, and I took it but we didn’t move our hands up and down as traditional handshakes go. We just stood there, holding one another’s hands awkwardly.
    My cheeks grew warm and sweat f ormed on my palm. I pulled my hand away and planted my back against the wall again. I cleared my throat. “How long do you think we can stay out here before someone comes looking for us?” I asked quietly.
    He pulled out his PCA, swiped his right hand over the screen and chuckled —a sound I hadn’t expected from so many today. “The longest I’ve made it is seven minutes, fourteen seconds. We’re at eight.”
    “And why is that funny?” I asked.
    Cray put his PCA in his back pocket and folded his arms. “It’s not.” For the first time I noticed how smooth his skin was, how bronzed and firm.
    “Were you close to your father?” he asked, fingertip barely touching his bottom lip as he swiped an imaginary pest from his cheek, a signal my father had used to imply silence.
    I nodded.
    His voice rose slightly as he said, “Neither was I. He was so involved in work all the time that we barely spoke. I wish I’d known him better.”
                  I closed my eyes as my head thunked back against the wall. They were listening to us , that’s what he was trying to tell me. My father had warned me about listening devices in government buildings, but why did they think we needed monitoring at a mourning? Our fathers had just been killed by terrorists. They couldn’t think we had something to do with that.
    I decided to play along anyway. “I mean we talked, but it was just dinner conversation, you know? He told us funny stories about things he saw on his way to work or whatever.”
    “You’re lucky to have those memories,” he said, his hand