Wordless Read Online Free PDF

unwieldy. The last letter of the word was like a hatchet standing upright, with a rounded blade facing to the right.
    I paused to look at my handiwork. The scratchy pencil marks only vaguely resembled the original letters. Good. They were close enough … and different enough, especially on the yellowed back of the postcard that would soon be facing the wall again.
    The second word was short, only two letters. The first looked like two pyramids, linked in the middle with no bases. The last was one I’d already copied—the second letter of the other word.
    When I finished, I crouched in the corner with my lighter and the white piece of paper. Before long, there was nothing but flaking ash, which I stomped into the concrete.
    But there was smoke, too.
    “Tavin?” Drey said, his voice as sharp as the sudden pounding on the door. “I smell something burning. And why is your door locked?”
    My own feet tripped me up in my hurry to get to the door. I didn’t often lock it, and I never failed to open it after he knocked. I cursed after smashing my knee into the metal chair and whipped the door open to find him frowning up at me.
    “What’s going on, Tav?”
    No doubt my face looked too guilty to deny everything. “I was … I was smoking.”
    Drey sighed. “You know that’s bad for you. And if you don’t, take it from an old man.”
    “You’re not old,” I said.
    He smiled—but then he sniffed the air. “That doesn’t smell like a cigarette. Or dope. What on earth were you smoking?”
    He sidled into the room before I could think of anything to say. I tried not to look at the greasy smear of ash in the corner. Fortunately, the concrete floor was already pretty grimy.
    But Drey wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at the desk, and only then did I remember that I hadn’t re-hung the postcard or closed the squeaky drawer, which was open like a mouth shouting the truth.
    “What’s this?” Drey asked, picking up the postcard with the message scratched into the back. The pencil sat nearby, looking like a murder weapon at the scene of a crime.
    Before I could invent some excuse about pretending to write—which would have worked, since Drey couldn’t tell the difference between real or fake letters—he asked in a tone of utter surprise:
    “Why does this say ‘help me’?”

four
    H-E-L-P M-E
    So that was what those letters meant. The news was nearly as shocking as the fact that Drey could read.
    “How do you know what it says?” I demanded.
    “I … well … ” Then his surprise, which had obviously lowered his guard, vanished. “Never mind! What is this doing here? Did you write this? And what was burning?”
    I folded my arms, not caring that I looked—and sounded—like I’d reverted to the age of ten. “I’m not telling until you tell me how the hell you’ve been able to read all this time! Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why didn’t you teach me?”
    The hurt was audible in my voice—yep, definitely ten—and Drey’s expression turned regretful for a second. Then his grizzled jaw hardened. “That’s none of your damn business. I don’t owe you any explanations. But you’re in my garage, so you owe me an explanation of what’s going on in here!”
    He’d never before drawn a line between his and my territory, always treating me more like family than an employee. I dropped onto the edge of my cot without saying anything. I didn’t think I could say anything without embarrassing myself. My throat was too tight.
    The letters that apparently said Matterhorn, Switzerland stared at me from the back of the postcard in Drey’s hand. He’d told me that he’d asked what they meant, but now I knew he hadn’t. He’d read them himself.
    “I kept it secret for your own good,” Drey said in nearly a whisper, putting a hand on the desk almost like he was steadying himself. “And I still can’t tell you anything, so don’t ask. No one knows I’m not wordless. Please don’t mention