The Record Collector – Nathaniel Williams
The first time the house yells at them, it sounds like her husband. Eileen Ulmstead-Barris springs up in bed and looks at Preston lying next to her, motionless in his favored sleeping position—on his back, with his head buried under a pillow that should have smothered any sounds rising from his mouth. The shouts become louder and louder, then stop. Moments later, another cry fills the room.
He must be having an awful nightmare, she thinks. When he is awake, Preston rarely raises his voice for anything. Eileen, half-asleep, shifts the duvet atop her, reaches for the pillow, and pulls it from Preston’s face. He looks peaceful, eyes shut, bathed in the green light of the digital alarm clock.
More shouts follow. Preston’s voice is echoing across the walls.
But his lips aren’t moving.
