The last note, the one he wrote that night, was ‘the jogger’s mouth.’ That mean anything to you?” “I don’t think so.”
I gave him my number so he could text me the notes and told him I’d look into it.
“Thanks,” he said. His voice had gotten small. “Davis thinks we’re better off with him on the run. Says it’d be worse if he was in jail.”
“What do you think?” He stared up at me for a moment, then said, “I want him to come home.” I sat down on the couch next to him.
“I’m sure he’ll show up.” I felt him leaning over until his shoulder was against mine.
I wasn’t wild about touching strangers, especially given that he didn’t seem to have showered in some time,
but I said, “It’s all right to be scared, Noah.”
And then he turned his face away from me and started sobbing. “You’re okay,” I told him, lying. “You’re okay. He’ll come home.”
“I can’t think straight,” he said, his little voice half strangled by the crying. “Ever since he left, I can’t think straight.”
I knew how that felt—all my life, I’d been unable to think straight, unable to even finish having a thought
because my thoughts came not in lines but in knotted loops curling in upon themselves, in sinking quicksand, in light-swallowing wormholes.
“You’re okay,” I lied to him again. “You probably just need some rest.” I didn’t know what else to say. He was so small, and so alone.
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