I WAIT AT the park until he shows, sitting on a bench where I can watch the street, refusing to budge when one of the girlfriends turns up with her boy. She glances at me, sits on the opposite bench, and makes herself busy with her phone, apparently acknowledging my right to take up space now.

Kincaid appears, so far away that I’m not even sure if it’s him at first. He jumps off the sidewalk, coasts in the breakdown lane, then jumps back over the curb before repeating the whole process. Even with the skill involved, there’s a weird, unsteady rhythm to it, like he might lose control at any moment and bite pavement.

He sees me and comes over, dropping down on the bench so close that our thighs touch. I’m aware of the other girlfriend watching us from the corner of her eye. “This, here?” He gestures to me, on the bench. “Prime example of kismet. I was just thinking about you.”

Whiskey bristles the air between us. “Well. You’re . . . aromatic today.” I watch as he laughs, nodding slowly, like his head feels so light it might drift away. “Wasted, huh?”

“Yes.” His own solemnity makes him laugh again.

“It’s three o’clock.”

“That late already? Shit.”

“Any chance I could get some coffee into you? Maybe try to talk?” I can’t catch his gaze. “Kincaid?”

He comes back to the moment. “Yeah. Definitely. Whatever.” Stretches, groans, rests back on the bench, eyes closed, feeling the thin autumn light on his face. “Wherever you want to go, Clarabelle.”

We end up at Song’s. He kept his eyes closed during the ride in the Suburban, neither of us speaking, me glancing over at him now and then, wondering how to begin, thinking about those marks on the dirt, the impression of a sleeping body.

Even at an off time on a Saturday, quite a few booths are taken as we seat ourselves in Song’s dining room. Kincaid opens the paper napkin and gets to work folding—first halves, then thirds. I watch him, the feeling of the nightmare coming over me again, shifting, unreal, like déjà vu. If he makes an origami moth, I might scream.

Daisy appears eventually, holding menus to her chest as she watches Kincaid, engrossed in art, his face inches above his work. She glances at me. “I’m guessing this is one of those savant things.”

“Can we have some coffee?”

Kincaid looks up. “Tea. Please. For me.”

When I change my order to ask for the same, Daisy goes, not bothering to leave the menus. She knows if we’re eating, it’s buffet. I found a couple loose dollars in the center console of the Suburban, and I have a little left over from the cash Ma gave me this week.