Free Whispers in Autumn by Trisha Leigh

folds up, puzzlement scrunching his smooth skin. “Gregory, that question is outside my training. But don’t be ridiculous. The Others do not kill their hosts. Look at how good they have been to the inhabitants of Earth. I suggest you remember that before you speak out again.”
    Greg, properly chastised, shoots a quizzical smile toward Leah, who ignores him. The excitement is over before it began, and at least no Warden witnessed the aberration. Still, the Monitor will most likely report the incident. The cold smile on Deshi’s face raises the hairs along the back of my neck. He looks as though Greg’s outburst has somehow made his day.
    We move outside for physical exercise, Greg’s strange question apparently forgotten by everyone but me. Each day is the same; we walk one mile and then jog another at a measured pace before returning inside. We are to stay healthy, to improve the quality of our lives.
    Whatever that means.
    We girls amble about ten paces behind the boys, who jockey with one another for position. A small, playful scuffle breaks out. The next moments happen in an instant as two boys stumble backward. Deshi’s shiny black hair flashes in the sun at the same moment that the second boy trips. He tumbles to the ground, all awkward angles, near the tree line. The boys stop and gather around when he doesn’t move. We hasten to catch up, then join them in gaping at the scene.
    Greg lies on his back, eyes closed and head sagging to one side. His chin rests near his collar and blood pools around the back of his head. The culprit is a jagged rock, part of a small garden along the path, half buried in the ankle-length grass. The ground soaks up puddles of blood and the blades of brown grass mat together. The squishy-looking insides of Greg’s head ooze from the split in his skull.
    Everyone moves back, their eyes wide with uncertainty but not fear. If anything, they’re mesmerized by the sight. Silence permeates the moment and I press a hand to my mouth, swallowing hard. My thoughts march in a slow-motion parade. Those are Greg’s brains. On the ground. Ten minutes ago he was perfectly normal. He laughed and talked too loud and said stupid things in astronomy.
    He said stupid things in astronomy .
    The moments before the accident explode in my mind’s eye and trigger a suspicion that Deshi pushed Greg. The way he watched the scene in astronomy with barely restrained glee, the way their feet and hands tangled before Greg fell.
    Bile sloshes in my gut as the thought turns solid and puts down roots. Things like this don’t happen on Earth, not under the Others. People don’t hurt one another.
    I decide I’m imagining it, and pull my eyes away from Greg’s ruined body.
    I’ve never seen anyone get hurt before, nothing worse than a scraped knee or bumped head as a child. Well, except that one broken bone. I don’t like to think about that.
    I struggle with my expression, too aware of Deshi’s eyes and the fact that Greg’s injury isn’t affecting anyone else. A strong arm supports me by the waist and I don’t have to turn to know who’s behind me. His scent is as recognizable as his face.
    Without thinking twice I droop back into his chest, working hard to control my reaction to the sickening sight. Lucas holds me up for several minutes as deep breaths help me relax. Pushing away from him and daring to open my eyes, I see my fellow students have turned away from Greg’s injured body, all talking at once and arguing about what to do next.
    “We can’t leave him here. Exercise is almost over.”
    “Someone should go in and tell the Administrator what happened.”
    “What’s the Administrator going to do? We should get a Healer.”
    “None of the Healers can help. Look at him. He’s Broken.” Deshi, the owner of that last voice, stands away from the crowd and leans against a tree with his feet crossed at the ankle. He studies his fingernails and heaves a sigh. “Come on, I’m just saying what