He stops but doesn’t turn around. He drops his head. “My mom’s sick and she’s not going to get better.” He switches off the lights then turns to face me. I can just make out his face from the streetlamp outside my window. “I knew, but I guess I was hoping.”

I sit up, holding the blanket to myself. “I’m sorry.”

He rubs the back of his neck, nods, turns. He’s lost in thought again, like he’s right back to where he was before he got here tonight. I hear his steps as he descends the stairs. Hear the front door open and close. I don’t get up to watch him go this time. I don’t want to. The other night’s departure still lingers in my mind and it makes me shudder.

It’s an omen.

A bad one.

11

Sergio

I walk in the door of my house, drop the keys on the side table, take off my coat and let it fall to the floor. I should have stayed with her. What I want more than anything right now is to lie down beside her and watch her sleep. Listen to her breathe. Hold this tangible, living thing. Hold it so fucking tight it won’t vanish like everything does.

From the living room, I pick up a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler. The lights are still off and I don’t switch them on but make my way into my study instead. This house is so quiet. So still. The curtains in the study are always drawn. This is the darkest room of the house.

I move behind my desk and switch on the lamp. From underneath the desk, I take out the large, rolled up sheet of what looks to be ancient parchment. It’s not. Just made to look that way. I unroll it, smoothing down the edges, looking at the black and white boxes, the gray, worn areas where I’ve erased and redrawn and erased and redrawn too many times. Where I’ve worn a small hole in one of those boxes.

This is why I came home. There’s work to be done.

Without paying attention, I pour a glass of whiskey and set the bottle on one corner of the sheet, sipping as I move around to the next. I slide another edge beneath the table lamp. The paperweight flattens another corner as I take my seat. One more sip and my tumbler rests on the final edge and the parchment is laid out before me.

I don’t have to look away to open the drawer and take out my pencils. Charcoal, for sketching. The callous on my middle finger is still dark from all the times I’ve held these.