I shook my head. “Jem, you don’t hafta —” “Hush a minute, Scout,” he said, pinching me.
We walked along silently. “Minute’s up,” I said. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”
I turned to look at him, but his outline was barely visible.
“Thought I heard something,” he said. “Stop a minute.”
We stopped. “Hear anything?” he asked. “No.” We had not gone five paces before he made me stop again.
“Jem, are you tryin’ to scare me? You know I’m too old—”
“Be quiet,” he said, and I knew he was not joking.
The night was still. I could hear his breath coming easily beside me.
Occasionally there was a sudden breeze that hit my bare legs, but it was all that remained of a promised windy night.
This was the stillness before a thunderstorm. We listened.
“Heard an old dog just then,” I said. “It’s not that,” Jem answered.
“I hear it when we’re walkin’ along, but when we stop I don’t hear it.”
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