cosleia

“I don’t look afraid!” the boy said, swiping at his nose; his eyes were watery and his lips were red and trembling. He had been loitering in front of an ancient, dilapidated freighter when Armie passed by—he was being taken somewhere, and he apparently did not want to go—and in some kind of futile protest he’d followed Armie to the opposite end of the spaceport.

“You do, though; anyone can tell what you’re thinking just by looking at your face,” Armie told him.

The boy sniffed, blinked his big brown eyes, and asked plaintively, “How do I make it stop?”

Armie considered him for a long moment; then, with a chuckle, he concluded, “I think you’d have to wear a mask.”