The Tiger Rising: Chapters 15–30

“So you never saw him again?” Rob asked.
“Nuh-uh,” said Willie May. “But sometimes, he comes flying through my dreams, flitting about and singing.”

Rob took hold of the sheet, and as it billowed out between them, a memory rose up before him: his father standing out in the yard, holding his gun up to the sky, taking aim at a bird.

He looked over his shoulder, wishing fervently that Willie May or his father would appear to save him from Beauchamp, knowing at the same time that he could not be saved, that he was on his own.

“You want to get introduced proper?” said Beauchamp in a mocking voice.

The tiger looked up from his meat. His muzzle was red with blood; he stared at Beauchamp with a fierce look in his eyes that was familiar to Rob.

Norton and Billy Threemonger started pelting Rob with date palms before the bus even came to a complete stop.

Rob was dismayed to see that she was still wearing his shirt and jeans.

His mother had known how to calm his father. She would put her hand on his arm or say his name in a soft and reproachful voice, and that would be enough.

She turned and walked away, and Rob stood and considered her words. He felt them on his skin like shards of broken glass.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys and held them in front of her, proudly, as if he had just conjured them out of thin air, as if they had never existed before.

Rob’s heart pounded and fluttered in his chest. “What if he eats us?” he asked.
“He won’t,” said Sistine. “He’ll leave us alone out of gratitude. We’re his emancipators.”

But the tiger ignored them. He continued to pace back and forth in the cage, oblivious to the open door.

“‘What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”’ Sistine continued. “‘In what distant deeps or skies / Burnt the fire of thine eyes? / On what wings dare he aspire?”’

“‘What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”’ Sistine continued. “‘In what distant deeps or skies / Burnt the fire of thine eyes? / On what wings dare he aspire?”’

“‘What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”’ Sistine continued. “‘In what distant deeps or skies / Burnt the fire of thine eyes? / On what wings dare he aspire?”’