Page 8 of Butterfly

That had stuck in Ollie’s mind.

It also meant that after Rory had left, there had been an imbalance with them inviting Ollie along to join their games of pool.

In Green’s and Jack’s eyes, it was perfect to pair him with Jonesy; balance could be restored, and they would all live in harmony again.

Ollie forced a smile and took the first shot.

Halfway through the game, Teddy came by, cheeks flushed and sweat dotting his brow, and he strolled close enough to pinch Ollie’s side before heading into their cell to grab a towel for a shower. Jack and Green barely noticed him, but Jonesy did, sucking in a breath once Teddy had walked back down the wing.

“What?” Ollie asked.

Jonesy opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was about to say, then shook his head. “Just…be careful.”

“Be careful?”

Jonesy hummed. “Yeah. No one knows what goes on in his head.”

Ollie blinked. He knew what went on in Teddy’s head because he’d asked him.

“He shouldn’t even be in here,” Jonesy muttered, taking his next shot.

“Jones…” Green flashed him a look.

Jonesy held his hands up in surrender. “I’m only saying. I’m allowed to have an opinion.”

“Where do you think he should be?” Ollie asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jack sighed, flicking his gaze at Green, who replied with a sigh.

“In some psychiatric unit,” Jonesy answered. “You know, where he’s tied down all the time for his own good.”

Ollie took a step back from the table. “He’s not crazy.”

“I’ve seen him growling and grumbling away in his own little world. He can’t speak or write or understand what’s going on.” Jonesy tapped his temple. “He’s not all there.”

Rather than fling his pool cue across the table like a spear, Ollie snorted. “He is all there, and you’re lucky he can’t hear you right now.”

Jonesy rested his cue against the table, folding his arms in challenge. “Why can’t he speak then?”

Ollie knew, Teddy had told him.

Once upon a time, Teddy could speak and write, but then, at the age of sixteen, he started getting headaches, his vision became blurred, and then the seizures started. His family were travellers. They didn’t have access to doctors and tried to manage his symptoms on their own.

At eighteen, Teddy collapsed and was rushed into hospital.

Tumour.

That was the word Teddy had pointed to in the dictionary, dispelling air through his nose in a long breath. Whenever Ollie pictured the word in his head, his blood ran cold.

Teddy’s life was saved that night with an emergency operation, but not without complications. He was unwell for months, plagued by paralysis down his right side, and without language skills. The paralysis faded, but not completely. His right hand no longer had the coordination to write, and his language skills were permanently gone. When Ollie questioned why Teddy didn’t start learning to write again with his left, Teddy stared off into space, finally answering with a word somehow worse than tumour.

Worthless.

Ollie had argued vehemently that wasn’t true, that he was worth it, and if they asked the governor or one of the officers that could be trusted, they could help Teddy to learn, and if not writing, they could learn sign language together, encourage others on the wing to learn it too.

Teddy had given Ollie the crinkled-eyes smile and ruffled his hair, saying no as politely as he could, and putting an end to the conversation.

“Well?” Jonesy demanded.

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