Big Feelings
The Gap Under the Door
Eli was six, and today had been a totally normal day. He carried a snail from the trash can to the fence. Ten minutes later: same snail, same trash can! Nothing scary about that snail. Nothing scary about anything. Yet.
In the bath, Eli made a secret plan. Under his pillow lived a little green flashlight with the camping batteries in it. Three nights, and he hadn’t pressed it once. Tonight, if the room went weird: one press. Click.
Pajamas. Teeth. Spit. Outside, the window went from gray to black, faster than it used to. Downstairs the TV shouted about football. Eli’s feet were freezing. He didn’t say a word.
Dad read the chapter about the mole. He read one page twice and didn’t even notice. Eli kept quiet. A page twice is a free page! The radiator went tick, tick, tick. The best part of the night.
Then the asking began. One more page? Yes. A tiny sip of water? Yes. The door open this much? Eli held his hands apart. Dad measured the gap with his own hand. “About a foot.” Yes.
“Night, buddy.” Light off. Door a foot open. Then, like always, Dad pulled it a bit more. And more. Click. The sixth step went creeeak. Under the door: one thin, bright strip of light.
And just like that, the room changed. The bathrobe on the hook had shoulders. The glow stars were fading, fast. Downstairs, the voices stopped being words and turned into a hum.
Eli lay flat as a plank, hands on his chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. The strip under the door was so bright, and so thin. His mouth was already open. Four seconds. Maybe less.
Three seconds. Downstairs the heat clicked on, as if it had been waiting for exactly this.
What does Eli do?
Every choice costs something. Let’s see what.
Call Dad back up for one more thing
“DAD?” Way too loud. Feet thundered back up, two stairs at a time. “What is it?” “I’m… thirsty,” said Eli. He wasn’t. But water is a thing you’re allowed to want.
Dad brought the yellow cup and put it on the shelf. Then he sat on the bed, tore the lid off the empty tissue box, and drew on it. A tiny Dad. Enormous ears. “Dad ticket,” he said. “One a night. You call, I come, you hand it over. Deal?” Eli took it. It had corners.
Dad went down. Click. The strip. And the four seconds came, right on time. But this time Eli had something to hold. He held it for ages. Then the bathrobe grew its shoulders back. “DAD?” Thunder on the stairs. Eli sat up and held out the ticket.
Dad took it, very serious, and put it in his shirt pocket. “Ticket accepted.” He stayed one whole minute and left the door wide open. Downstairs the dishwasher changed gears: whirr, CLUNK. No ticket now. Eli’s hands had nothing to do, so he sat on them.
Sleep came late. In the morning the yellow cup was still on the shelf, nearly full, with a speck of dust on top. Dad yelled up that there was a new ticket on the fridge. Eli ran down to check. A new tiny Dad, with even bigger ears.
Press the flashlight under his pillow
His hand dove under the pillow before the rest of him had decided anything. Cold at one end, warm at the other. His thumb found the little bump. One press. Click. Just like he’d planned in the bath.
Nothing got fixed. His heart still went bam-bam-bam. But under the blanket everything glowed orange, like a tent, and his hands had a job now. He aimed the beam at the gap. His light was yellower. Ha.
With the flashlight on, the room was just a room again. The whale poster. The crack shaped like Wales. The bathrobe, thank you very much, was a bathrobe. He counted the glow stars and got lost in the forties.
He fell asleep with the flashlight still on. At ten, Dad came up, saw a little orange line glowing under the door, and stood there for a second. Then he went to bed and let it glow.
In the morning the flashlight was warm and completely dead. Three nights of saving, gone in one go! Eli was furious. Dad said there were more batteries in the junk drawer. Eli found two. Into the flashlight? No. Under the pillow. For saving.
Stay completely still and say nothing
He shut his mouth. He was a log now. Arms flat. Chin up. One foot sticking out of the covers. He was NOT moving that foot. Moving it would mean he’d noticed something.
The radiator ticked. He did not look at the bathrobe, which is exactly the same as looking at it. His heart thudded into the pillow. Under the covers it got hot. Really hot. He didn’t budge.
He held his breath to hear better, and his ears roared like the sea. His hands made fists by themselves. Downstairs somebody laughed at the TV. Nobody came up. Nobody in the whole house knew.
He got through it inch by inch, without moving at all. At ten: sixth step, creeeak. The landing light went click, and the strip under the door went with it. Some time after that, Eli slept.
In the morning one sock had vanished. “Sleep okay?” said Dad over the cereal. “Yeah,” said Eli, and shoved in an enormous spoonful so he wouldn’t have to say anything else. Under the table, one sock and one bare foot swung back and forth.