Then he started writing.
The two months they had me in that little room, here in El Sedero, I had a game I’d play in my head. I did it whenever I got scared or felt too alone. The game was, I’d imagine I could feel other people, far away outside the building. A whole town full of them. I told myself I could feel their emotions—little kids were like puppies, old people were like deep water without any waves. But there was one person in town I liked focusing on more than all the rest. Someone who seemed strong. Someone hard, like the soldiers who watched over me in that place, but not cold like them. Everything about that person seemed good, and at the worst times, that’s who I kept my mind on, to make myself feel less afraid. I never knew if I was making it all up or not.
Another pause.
So many times, I thought about trying to get away from that place. I even knew where I’d run if I did it. I’d seen the boardwalk in the soldiers’ thoughts, all the time. But the idea of it was scary, being alone out in the dark, being chased. So I had this fantasy, almost every night. I imagined myself running away, and I pictured that spot where one boardwalk meets the other. In my fantasy, that person in town, the one who made me feel safe, would be waiting for me when I got there.
Dryden smiled, in spite of the pain.
The night jogs.
Compulsions that came on like fits.
Drawing him out to the boardwalk at all hours of the night. Out to the junction, to stand for minutes on end, for reasons he could never quite place.
All at once he was sure Rachel was smiling, too. Even laughing. Through tears.
Sorry about all that.
“I’m not sorry,” Dryden whispered in the silence.
I know.