something. You’re important to the Agency; you’re a valuable resource, and we want to take care of you, make sure you’re happy and safe. So, if you need anything, or have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me. Enter this number in your contacts, but don’t use my name. Make something up. And, Andy, it doesn’t matter what time you call or where you are. I’ll be there. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good night, Andy. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”
When Andy hung up, he was ninety percent sure that Silas knew about the guy in the park, and he couldn’t decide if he was pleased or annoyed that he hadn’t mentioned it.
Silas spent two hours that evening staring at the canvas that stretched across his living room. Once, he picked up a charcoal pencil and leaned toward the surface, his eyes narrowed and focused on a blank space. But as the point of the pencil touched it, the moment was lost. Sighing loudly, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to recapture what had been so close, but after a few seconds, he shook his head. It was gone. He consulted the notebook he kept near his bed for jotting down the events and images of his dreams, hoping it might trigger a memory, but it was no use: Whatever he had been close to realizing had slipped away.
For Silas, the one night’s failure was nothing new. Three years of waiting had taught him patience. He thought of Andy and his model of the
Indefatigable,
with its thousands of pieces and instructions written in Italian. It was a difficult model—a challenge, for sure—but no one would call it impossible. Silas’s task, trying to piece together his past from brief flashes of memories and dreams filled with faces and places he didn’t recognize, had less certainty. He believed it to be possible, though he had his doubts. He was building a ship model without instructions—no, it was worse than that: He didn’t even know what the ship looked like.
He pushed his chair back and went to the kitchen, where he filled his mug with tea and turned on the radio to catch Howard Twopenny in mid-rant:
“…and that’s not the half of it. If you just joined us, you’re listening to Howard Twopenny tellin’ it like it is, and, folks, I’ve got another crazy story for you. As if you needed any more proof that this country is in trouble. Some genius, no doubt from the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, has decided that readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic ain’t enough for kids today—they now need to take part in this Commie plot they like to call community service. Before the kids can graduate, they have to help people, whether they want to or not. And they have to do it for nothing. You heard me right. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Some of these kids are working ten or twelve hours a week for these do-gooder organizations and not taking home a cent. It’s not only unpaid, it’s downright un-American.
“Hakuna matata
, slackers. We’ve got your back. No matter how big a mess you make of your life, there’s always going to be a bunch of
unpaid
goody-goody high school kids to bail you out. I’m Howard Twopenny, and that’s my two cents’ worth. What do you think? Call me.”
Part of the Sunday afternoon ritual at the Llewellyn apartment included a video call from Andy’s mom, Abbey, who was still in the Mtwara region of Tanzania.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Move closer to the screen so I can see your forehead. That’s looking good. Almost healed. You’re going to have a scar, but it won’t be bad. Very Harry Potter.”
“Great. Just what I always wanted.”
“You could do worse. Harry’s a hero in the end. So, how’s school? Still like it? Making friends? Oh my gosh! I almost forgot—the dog! Where is she? It’s a she, right?”
“Penny! Come here, girl. Yeah, she’s a girl. She’s amazing. Say hi, Penny.”
“She’s beautiful! Oh, I can’t wait to meet her in person. I’m still a
“Okay.”
“Good night, Andy. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”
When Andy hung up, he was ninety percent sure that Silas knew about the guy in the park, and he couldn’t decide if he was pleased or annoyed that he hadn’t mentioned it.
Silas spent two hours that evening staring at the canvas that stretched across his living room. Once, he picked up a charcoal pencil and leaned toward the surface, his eyes narrowed and focused on a blank space. But as the point of the pencil touched it, the moment was lost. Sighing loudly, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to recapture what had been so close, but after a few seconds, he shook his head. It was gone. He consulted the notebook he kept near his bed for jotting down the events and images of his dreams, hoping it might trigger a memory, but it was no use: Whatever he had been close to realizing had slipped away.
For Silas, the one night’s failure was nothing new. Three years of waiting had taught him patience. He thought of Andy and his model of the
Indefatigable,
with its thousands of pieces and instructions written in Italian. It was a difficult model—a challenge, for sure—but no one would call it impossible. Silas’s task, trying to piece together his past from brief flashes of memories and dreams filled with faces and places he didn’t recognize, had less certainty. He believed it to be possible, though he had his doubts. He was building a ship model without instructions—no, it was worse than that: He didn’t even know what the ship looked like.
He pushed his chair back and went to the kitchen, where he filled his mug with tea and turned on the radio to catch Howard Twopenny in mid-rant:
“…and that’s not the half of it. If you just joined us, you’re listening to Howard Twopenny tellin’ it like it is, and, folks, I’ve got another crazy story for you. As if you needed any more proof that this country is in trouble. Some genius, no doubt from the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, has decided that readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic ain’t enough for kids today—they now need to take part in this Commie plot they like to call community service. Before the kids can graduate, they have to help people, whether they want to or not. And they have to do it for nothing. You heard me right. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Some of these kids are working ten or twelve hours a week for these do-gooder organizations and not taking home a cent. It’s not only unpaid, it’s downright un-American.
“Hakuna matata
, slackers. We’ve got your back. No matter how big a mess you make of your life, there’s always going to be a bunch of
unpaid
goody-goody high school kids to bail you out. I’m Howard Twopenny, and that’s my two cents’ worth. What do you think? Call me.”
Part of the Sunday afternoon ritual at the Llewellyn apartment included a video call from Andy’s mom, Abbey, who was still in the Mtwara region of Tanzania.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Move closer to the screen so I can see your forehead. That’s looking good. Almost healed. You’re going to have a scar, but it won’t be bad. Very Harry Potter.”
“Great. Just what I always wanted.”
“You could do worse. Harry’s a hero in the end. So, how’s school? Still like it? Making friends? Oh my gosh! I almost forgot—the dog! Where is she? It’s a she, right?”
“Penny! Come here, girl. Yeah, she’s a girl. She’s amazing. Say hi, Penny.”
“She’s beautiful! Oh, I can’t wait to meet her in person. I’m still a
Similar Books
