The Hunt Stories

Page 17

12 "I didn't say ..." "Hunt: wash your face!" He got out of bed, felt his way to the bathroom. Was the cold water on the left or right? Right. He ran it. He let it get really cold. He splashed his face with it for a long time. He tried his face. He tried to pry his lids open with a towel. But they wouldn't come. He felt his way back to the bedroom. "They won't open." "Hunt!" He stood outside in the wind and 18 degree temperatures while Leah was cooking breakfast. He thought the cold would contract his skin. But for Hunt, even in the jay-filled New Hampshire morning, it stayed dark. He flexed his forehead, wrinkling and unwrinkling his brow, thinking that he could loosen his lids that way. But they wouldn't come. "Dad, you eyes are shut!" Sean said to him, chewing cinnamon toast, staring across the table. "Yes, I know." "Your father's rehearsing for a play." "Dad - are . . .?" "It's not funny, Leah. I won't be able to paint!" "Pity." "Dad - really - are . . .?" "I won't be able to walk with you and Todd up to the bus this morning, Sean."