His eyes, his nose, his mouth—all his facial features were a bit too big for him, like they’d grown up but his face was still a kid’s.
“I’m not sure what to say,” he said. “I’m... not good at chitchat.”
Try saying what you’re thinking,” I said. “That’s something I never ever do.
He smiled a little and then shrugged. “Okay. I’m thinking, I wish she wasn’t after the reward.
“What reward?” I asked, unconvincingly. Davis sat down on one of the teak loungers, and I sat across from him.
He leaned forward, bony elbows on bony knees. “I thought of you a couple weeks ago,” he said.
Right when he disappeared, I kept hearing his name on the news, and they would say his full name—Russell Davis Pickett—
and I kept thinking, you know, that’s my name; and it was just so weird, to hear the newscasters say,
‘Russell Davis Pickett has been reported missing.’ Because I was right here.”
“And that made you think of me?” “Yeah, I don’t know. I remember you telling me—
like, I asked about your name once and you said that your mom named you Aza
because she wanted you to have your own name, a sound you could make your own.”
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