Today, as we turned the corner of Crawford Street, I’d lost the ability to frame a single coherent thought.
I couldn’t sit. No, I was perched, staring out of the Jeep’s window, my eyes drinking in Boone’s world, his neighborhood, in deep swills of visual imagery. Two boys zoomed past us, riding their bikes like the wind, and I smiled, catching sight of their fleeting youth as they raced against the invisible threats of time.
I was one of them once. A sweet dream ago.
“Derek, could you please relax?” Nathan’s voice was a pesky fly at the edge of my ear. “What number is he?” The Jeep slowed down. “Oh wait, here it is.”
Surges of electrical synapses stirred my brain and nerves. We were parked in front of Boone’s house.
Nathan turned the engine off and combed his fingers through his thick
