The Noise Tax

If Dad's hidden savings were stolen, he would lose his mind, and every bit of that rage would land on Mom and me. I could not let that happen.

I had to do something, but I could not make a sound as that would cost money.

I was sweating through my pajamas, my mind racing. My hand found the coin in my pocket, small and cold against my fingers. It was everything I had.

One dollar. It was not enough to buy a piece of candy or a sheet of paper.

However, it could make a tiny bit of noise that stayed under the limit.

The burglar had his hand on the bedroom door handle. The knife was raised.

There was no time left. I took a slow breath, flicked my wrist, and let the coin roll across the floor.

It spun and caught the leg of the coffee table with a bright, clean ring. It was small enough to get lost amidst the lightning. The decibel meter ticked up to 38.

That was under the limit, so there would be no fine.

The burglar froze. He spun around and looked toward the wardrobe in the corner of the living room and, through the narrow gap in the door, we locked eyes. His gaze was cold and mean. He abandoned the bedroom and started walking toward me instead.

He crossed the room one slow step at a time, his shoes landing heavily on the floor.

I pressed both hands over my mouth and dug my nails into my cheeks. I could not scream. I absolutely could not scream.

He reached the wardrobe and yanked the door open.

I was crouched inside, curled into the smallest shape I could make. He looked down at me and smiled, the kind of smile that had nothing kind in it. He had not expected to find a wide-awake child hiding in the dark.

He raised the knife and brought it down toward me.

I shut my eyes and did not move. If I threw myself sideways, I would knock against the wardrobe wall and make noise, and noise meant fines.

The blade went into my stomach, first cold, and then fiery hot. A tearing and burning pain a hundred times worse than the time I broke my arm.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to scream out loud, to let it out, to make some sort of sound that matched what was happening to my body.

I opened my eyes and looked at the decibel meter. 32.

Good. I had not made a sound.

Blood soaked through my pajamas and spread across the floor in a dark pool. The burglar stared at me for a moment, thrown off.

He had probably never stabbed a child who did not make a sound. He must have thought I was mute, or in shock. He pulled the knife out, and the pain came again in fresh waves. My whole body convulsed and I bit clean through my lip, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

Still, I did not make a sound.

He wiped the blade on my sleeve, then turned and went straight for the cabinet across the room. That was where Dad kept his hidden cash, and I watched, unable to do anything, as the burglar pulled out a metal lockbox.

It held everything Dad valued most, cash and valuables, and the burglar emptied it into his backpack, zipped it shut, and left the same way he had come in, over the windowsill and out into the rain.

The room went quiet again. There was only the thunder outside and the quiet, steady drip of blood hitting the floor.

The decibel meter read 29.

It was quiet enough. Mom and Dad were still asleep, so neither of them had been disturbed. Neither of them had been frightened.

I had done well. I was a good girl. The most cost-effective child there was.

My vision was going blurry at the edges and the cold feeling was spreading through my body slowly, the way it does when something is running out. I felt like a balloon with a hole in it, something essential leaking out with no way to stop it.

I looked at the coin on the floor. It lay still in the middle of a dark red puddle, catching what little light there was.

It was a shame, really. It had been enough to buy one small sound, one tiny distraction, but it was not enough to buy a hug from Dad, or tears from Mom, or my life.

I let my eyes close. I looked at the decibel meter one last time. 28.

Perfect.

I had slipped away without causing any trouble at all.

Dad would be proud of me. Right?