A little girl in a yellow hospital gown grabbed his sleeve when he tried to leave her room and said something I couldn’t hear. Charlie leaned down, listened, and then did an elaborate bow that made her laugh with her whole body.
He came out of the ward when he was done, and the yellow coat and the red nose were gone, and he looked older and quieter and more like himself than he had in weeks.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
We drove separately. I followed his taillights through the medical district and onto the interstate, watching the familiar shape of his car through the windshield, thinking about how many ways you can know a person and still miss entire rooms of who they are.
The Loose Tile, the Gift Box, and the Note That Was Waiting Beneath Owen’s Table
We went straight to Owen’s room.
