The only sound I can clearly hear is the tick-tick-ticking of the industrial clock on the wall. Its steady tock ticks each passing second in the eternity of seconds that the doctor speaks to Mama and Pops. Everything else— the voices from the nurse station, the squeaking of the wheels on the passing cart, the buzz of machines in the nearby room, the scuffle of feet passing by– is muffled like a watch enveloped in cotton, like the beating of a heart beneath the floorboards. Like the sound of a man walled up behind a brick wall. Eventually, they all go silent.

I did it. I killed my baby brother. I killed him as surely as the narrator in my favorite story went mad. He went crazy and raved. He couldn’t keep it inside anymore. But me? My hands are tucked beneath my legs, and my feet swing, swing, swing back and forth and back over the edge of the too-tall stool. Even my corduroys don’t swish. Just the clock ticks. My Pops has his arm around Mama. Their lips move. Pops’ are speaking, but I can’t hear. Mama’s tremble.

I wonder if they’ll want to arrest me. I would deserve it. Maybe I should rave, and they would put me away, and I’d get what I deserve. Like the crazy narrator. I’m not mad, though, not crazy. I’m just an irresponsible no-good little bastard according to Pops.

Earlier tonight, Pops told me it was my turn to watch the fire. And I did. I stoked it and sifted the coals about. I even brought in a little extra wood while they slept. The wood stove was nice and hot, just like Mama likes it at night.

She’d say, “Some heat’ll keep the chill off yer bones and the Devil from your soul.” I never much thought that made any sense if the Devil lives in Hell. I mean, isn’t Hell supposed to be filled with fire and brimstone? I guess I’ll find out soon. I don’t think they forgive murderers in Heaven.

But anyways, I made the fire nice and hot. Once it got steamy, there was not much to do except watch Frankie sleep and maybe do my homework. Neither’s much fun.

Frankie’s my baby brother, well… he was my baby brother. He just turned three; I’m 10. There’s some more of us in between. I once heard Mama tell Auntie that Pops doesn’t take no for an answer, and that’s why she’ll end up with a whole army of kids. I mean, I’m not sure how big an army is, but I can guess that means I’ll have more siblings than I can count. Maybe one day, they will help with all the chores. But none of them but me and Frankie were by the fire, and so this isn’t about them. It’s never about them.

It seems I’m the one who always has to be a “little man.” “You’re the little man of the house. It’s your responsibility to keep it together.” It’s Pops’s way of saying, “Shut up and do your chores.” “Tend the cows, Ben.” “Feed the pigs, Ben.” “Help your sister gather eggs, Ben.” “Watch, Frankie, Ben.” “Tend the fire, Ben.” Ben do this, Ben do that! I never asked to be a little man. I don’t think I’d much like being a man at all if all I do is work like Pops, stink like cigarellos and whiskey, and yell at everyone. Seems like telling everyone what to do is the only good thing about being an adult.

But no, this isn’t about Mama, or Pops, or the army. It’s about me and Frankie and the fire.

Well, watching Frankie twitch for hours, dreaming away on his cot, is about as exciting as watching the trickle of water drip into the pail at the broken well pump out back. And I already tried to do my math homework, but math makes my teeth ache. The teacher told me once that I should work on not clenching my jaw so hard when I do my facts. But I hate math. So, math wasn’t going to happen. And since I didn’t want a toothache or a headache since that’s what science gives me, and science was the only other assignment, I came to the conclusion that homework was not an option. But reading is always an option.

I’m good– no, better than good- at reading. Top of my class. Pops said it’s a wasted skill ‘cause there’s more important things to do than stick my nose in a book. But I love all those creepy and strange stories– murder and mayhem, that kind of stuff. Well, I used to love them. Before tonight. I don’t think I do anymore. So, instead of doing homework and watching little Frankie’s fingers twitch, I read. It was a story called “Cask of Armadillo”. Wait. No, that’s not right. “Cask of” something, but no matter. I don’t even know what a cask is, but I like the story enough. Anyway, the more I read about the man who got revenge by walling up some other guy behind some bricks, the more I got sleepier and sleepier. The fire must have warmed the house, and me, too much. Before I knew it, I fell asleep. And I know I didn’t mean to, but I can’t remember even closing my eyes. I must have, though, cause I dreamt.

First, I dreamt I was a police officer watching a raving mad lunatic. He confessed his crimes, and they threw him in the slammer. I got to put on his handcuffs and drag him away. Then, I dreamt I was behind that brick wall, the room in front of me so dark. The dark suffocated me. I gasped and woke sputtering. The whole room was clouded gray with smoke. I couldn’t make out anything. It took my sleepy brain a long time, I think, to make sense of what was happening. Then I screamed loud enough to wake God in case he was sleeping, too.

I shook Frankie and shook him. When he didn’t wake up, I picked him straight up off his cot and carried his little body outside to the cool grass. Soon, the other kids were standing in the yard, too, watching the smoke billow out the door like storm clouds in the sky as Pops opened the windows. A cloth tied around his head shielded his nose and mouth.

Mama shook Frankie. She pounded on his chest. She slapped his back. But Frankie wasn’t right. Then she told the army to go down to Farmer Koch’s while Pops and her took me and Frankie to the hospital.

We bumped down the road in the rickety old red pickup truck until we got here. Pops had his foot all the way to the floor. I know cause we didn’t even stop for any of the stop signs. The whole time, Mama talked to Frankie, telling him he wasn’t going to die, he would be okay, but Frankie didn’t talk back. No one spoke to me for a long time until Pops finally asked me what happened. When I told him I fell asleep, and maybe the flue wasn’t open or something, I went from being a little man to an irresponsible no-good little bastard.

I don’t think Pops will call me anything else for the rest of my life.

Maybe the heat warmed my bones too much and brought the Devil to my soul because the look on Mama’s face when she looked at me made me real hot and sickly in my belly.

I don’t want Mama to know the Devils in me, so I’ll stop reading all those stories if Frankie could be okay. I wouldn’t complain anymore about chores. I’d do exactly what I was told. I do actually like him better than the rest of Mama’s army. And I could… I could figure out how to be just like Pops if I could watch Frankie twitching again in sleep. And I wouldn’t say a thing. I would be nice and quiet.

I wish I could hear what the doctor was saying to my folks, but all I hear still is the clock, and I’m sure it’s just a tick away from me being handcuffed. Or from them walling me up. And I deserve it, too, ‘cause I’m just an irresponsible no-good little bastard who killed his brother and I’d rather be beneath the floorboards.