The map is sprawled across Joe’s workbench, fingertips gently wrangling the ends. He’s hunched over it, eyes swelling over every landmark and stray note but he’s not trying to decipher it. He’s not trying to make sense of it at all. He’s just looking at it, reading it. Slow and careful.
I lean against the open door, watching him, waiting for him to speak. I don’t know what I want to hear. That he would do the same thing, that I’m not crazy, that I’m not lost. Because even with Nia still pulling the strings, that’s how I feel. Maybe that’s why I told the truth. Because this man seems to know what to do with things that are lost.