August 21, 2013

I went back to Don’s house today. He was sitting right where I left him two days ago. I didn’t say anything to him at first. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. I was still afraid he was playing some elaborate cruel joke on me, but in the back of my mind I knew this wasn’t the case- that everything he’d said to me was true. I sat down next to him on the porch swing and we rocked in silence for a moment. He didn’t turn to look at me or open his mouth first. He was waiting for me to speak, I knew he was. So I did.

“Everything you told me, everything you said was out there killing people, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not and it doesn’t matter that we even know at all. They’re going to keep killing and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

That’s what I said to him. I was nervous as hell as I spoke because Don is intimidating, especially when sitting so close to him that my small, delicate shoulder touched his massive muscles.

“Come with me.”

Those were the scariest words he could have possibly said, but I followed him inside anyway. His house was dark and dirty. If he hadn’t just been sitting out front, I would have thought the place was abandoned. The blinds were drawn shut, letting not even a ray of light sneak its way in to brighten up the dreary livingroom. The rich wood floors had dried muddy boot tracks leading in every direction possible. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. There were piles of books, stacks of magazines, and shelves against the walls that housed mysterious boxes of all shapes and sizes. He sat down on the couch and I swear I saw a cloud of dust rise from the impact. He stared at me, waiting for me to join him, but I remained standing. When enough time had passed that it became clear I wasn’t going to sit, he spoke again.

“What if I told you there was something we could do about it?”

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