“My name is Peter”, the youth said.
“Chris.”
“I was told you’d
have a place for me tonight.”
“Yes. We always have extra beds.”
“It’s just for one
night.”
“I know this.”
His name had once
been—Peter couldn’t remember anything. He ran his hand through his hair, which
had grown steadily over the summer.
Then, his head used to be shaved?
He vaguely recalled the fountain.
A column rising from the middle, topped by a bat-winged gargoyle from
which mouth spouted water. He had drunk
from there? He couldn’t remember. There’d been two people there with him, a
beautiful girl and a handsome man. They
had been in his care? He’d had some kind
of responsibility. It was all beginning
to blur. Perhaps tomorrow, after a
decent night’s sleep, he might remember more.
Tomorrow he would be driven to the airport and then—where was he
going? He knew nothing, remembered
little, then less. He did know that
tomorrow morning, early, there would be a car with a driver, waiting to take
him away.
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