HELPER12 Jack Blaine (best time to read books .TXT) 📖

no way to turn them off.  There was a constant stream of ads, stories, and news updates twenty-four hours a day.  Even the Ward had a screen, and all of the shops had them.  I used to think that they were just background noise to me.  Until I came here, and realized what silence was like.  The Sloanes do have a screen—they have several.  But all their screens have controls.  They can switch them on, or switch them off.  It’s their choice.  The silence in the house is amazing.  I feel like I can hear myself think for the first time ever.

The Domestic Helper did get the crib moved into my room, that first day.  She had the Driver do it.  It sits in the corner by the window, so Jobee gets sun sometimes.  The Driver brought a changing table in too, and a chest of drawers filled with baby outfits.  Neither of them said much to me.  They still don’t.  The Domestic Helper just waggles her eyebrows a lot, and looks like I’m getting in her territory.  The Driver doesn’t come in the house much.

Mr. Sloane is the most talkative of the bunch, and he doesn’t say more than a few words to me a day.  Ms. Sloane comes in to see Jobee in the morning, and I don’t see her again until dinner.  She wants Jobee to eat with them, at the big table downstairs, so that means I eat with them, too.

I wear the clothes that were in the closet, instead of my Baby Helper uniform.  They are all different colors, and they are of a finer material than anything I’ve ever owned.  All of the tops have long sleeves, to cover my designation tattoo.  Although I’m certain that Ms. Sloane didn’t mean for it to happen, I look pretty good in the clothes.  I have to stop myself from admiring the cut of a skirt, or the drape of a sweater, sometimes.  I’ve never felt the way those clothes make me feel.

I haven’t seen their son Thomas since the night in the Ward.  He’s away at school.  That’s what they call it: school.  It’s not training—he’s not been tracked for anything as far as I can decipher from their conversations.  He just studies all kinds of things.  The Sloanes talk about him to each other at dinner sometimes, about how smart he is, or how great he’s doing in some subject of study.

“Thomas sent word that his project was the winner,” Ms. Sloane will say to Mr. Sloane.

“Wonderful.”  Mr. Sloane will be looking at his plate, cutting his meat or buttering bread.

Then there will be silence, while utensils click delicately against plates.  After a bit, Mr. Sloane will ask Ms. Sloane about her day, and she’ll tell him about some lunch she went to, or what event they have to attend that evening.  Rarely do either of them look over at Jobee.  When he makes some noise or fusses, Mr. Sloane will look up as though he’s forgotten they bought a baby, and say something like “The boy seems strong.”  Ms. Sloane will nod, and say something like “He is doing so well.”  Then she changes the subject.

It’s strange.  They took a great risk bringing Jobee here.  At the Ward, Ms. Sloane seemed almost desperate to have him.  If they were discovered, I don’t know what would happen to them.  So for them to act as though he’s not that important to them—I just can’t figure it out.  There are things going on here that I don’t know anything about.  And they scare me.

I feel like I’m blind, like I’m groping along walls in an unfamiliar room, trying to find my way.  That would be bad under any circumstances, but I can’t protect Jobee from these people while I’m blind.  I have to find out what is happening here, and how to make Jobee matter to these people.  Because I know how disposable he is, how disposable I am.  We can disappear in an instant from here, just like we disappeared from the Ward.  Only next time I don’t think we’d be going anyplace this nice.

I am not allowed to leave.  I can go outside, but I can’t go beyond the gate.  The other dwellings on the street aren’t visible from the courtyard; they’re not visible from inside, either.  We might as well be the only people on the planet.

I love taking Jobee out to the courtyard, even though I know it’s just another part of a prison, for us.  It’s still the most beautiful place I’ve been.  The colors of the pots, the way the light makes the leaves of the plants glow.  The sound of the water in the fountain.  All of it is so foreign to me, and yet it feels like the way things should be.  Jobee likes it too—it always calms him when he is fussy.

Ms. Sloane doesn’t call him Jobee.  She told me the day I arrived that they had named him William.  I don’t call him that; I just say baby when they’re around.  But when we’re alone, I hum his name to him.  Jobee, you are Jobee, I whisper into his ear.  My name is Benna, I say.  I tell him so he won’t forget, so neither one of us will forget who we are.

“How is William today?”

Ms. Sloane’s voice makes me jump.  She doesn’t usually come out to the courtyard when we’re here.  I turn to her with a smile fixed firmly on my face.

“He’s well.”  I offer him to her; the more she holds him, the better.  Half the time she refuses him, but today she is feeling beneficent.  She reaches out, clasps him to her.  He starts to fidget a little.

“Remember how he likes his feet rubbed.”  I watch her carefully, trying to gauge whether this will anger her; sometimes she resents being told how to handle him.  Today it’s okay—she cups his foot in her hand and gently smoothes it with her finger.