by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 23: ADAM
A classical tune played in my head, a tune everyone knows but only people on Jeopardy can name. Birds chirped in the fresh air. I blew air through my puckered lips to join them. No music. I could never whistle.
At the bottom of the steps, I couldn’t remember if I locked the front door. I went back.
Or was that yesterday? It happened a lot. I forget if I forgot.
I remember I balanced my travel mug on the roof of the car. I heard a rustle across the street. Someone, a figure, emerged from the trees and into the light. Closer, I made out more details. They bent their head. A hood hid their face. A leaf clung to the hood. The body seemed to be a male’s, a young male. The clothes were wrinkled, but they looked new. He didn’t speak.
I wasn’t alarmed. I sensed an emergency, just not mine. I prepared to take someone to the hospital or lend the kid my cell or something, and be late for work. But nothing was out of the ordinary other than the boy, and the boy was just walking. He kept his head bent down, I figured, because he was crying and was ashamed about it. I was happy to help lend a hand.
He was about fifteen feet away.
“Can I help you?”
