In Plain Sight

    The boy was quiet, the result--or was it just experience?--of the daily practice by which he had developed the gift of becoming invisible. He could relax at that thought: they can't see me even though he knew it wasn't literally true.

    Anybody paying attention would see he was right there, in plain sight. He was human, a corporeal presence, but a human who had mastered the art of being unobtrusive which was conveniently similar to being invisible. And he was just a kid--what did he know--an added benefit.

    So he'd seen a lot, mentally recorded overheard conversations, arguments that would have been silenced or diverted if either of them had noticed him sitting there, on the chair, his chair, book in hand, or working with the wire and bolt puzzle only he could disentangle.

    Which is what he was doing now, fiddling with the damn puzzle (to use his father's words.)

    They were talking in that loud whisper which meant trouble. They thought he couldn't hear them, or that he was too deep into the d-- puzzle to notice, or too stupid--whatever. He knew he was invisible, so he paid attention while they hissed and shouted, and waited for the moment when one would slam a door and disappear.

    He would look away then, stare at his hands, or close his eyes as if he'd slept through the whole thing, until the other one left the room, slamming the door or not--so much better when they both left quietly.

    Then he could open his eyes, slow his breathing until he felt normal again, and recreate himself to forget, word by word, what they had just said, shouted, threatened, promised.

    Then he was free to begin the day, again, and so he did.