Watchers

The Man of No Return

"This one story," I continued, seeing I had his full attention, "was about you, I think."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Well, you just have to listen to my theory, all right?"

He sat back like he was getting ready to watch a ten-hour movie marathon. Instead of looking totally comfortable, though, I could see some dull, anxious glow in his eyes.

I started. "I've been reading the papers I pulled from the trunk. I want to go back and get more of them, but I'm beginning to think that whoever wrote them was . . . sort of . . . studying people. I mean, there's the one story that kind of sounds like it's about me, right? And then I read one about a really big girl who sounds a lot like the Ham. There are stories about other kids, but I can't tell if they're about certain people because I don't know many of them from school."

"Are they all about kids?"

"No. That's what I was getting to." I chewed my tongue, trying to think about the best way of wording the next part. There was no best way. I just had to say it. "There's one about your dad. Or, at least, I think it's about your dad."

"My . . . ?"

"Yeah." I looked at the floor. I didn't want to see his face. He never talked about his dad—couldn't even mention his name. To hear me doing it probably wasn't too fun. "It's the story of a guy who disappears one night. He has a wife and a kid. They didn't say who the kid was . . . just that it was a boy. But the man didn't go on purpose. Supposedly, he went because he was summoned on a quest—you know, like for the Holy Grail or something. Except it wasn't the Holy Grail. It doesn't say why he had to go, just that somebody called him. Like God or something. I don't know who. It's not a very long story, Adam. It spends more time talking about the water-colored night sky and the sleeping town. It goes into all these details about how things look, the boy in his bed, the wife smiling in her sleep, you know. It's about three pages, and all it ends in is this guy getting some urge in him to walk through the fields and head off into the moonlight, or some junk. The main reason I think it's about you is because . . . well, that's what happened, right? You woke up one morning and . . . and your dad—"

"Stop," whispered Adam, his gaze plastered to the rug.

So I stopped. I held my breath. The world held its breath.

He didn't go any further. He closed his eyes and curled back up on the sofa. Why was he being so weird? "Do you want me to show it to you?" I chanced asking.

"No."

I stared at him blankly. "Well . . . do you want me to go?"

"I don't care."

"Ok . . ." I got to my feet. If he was going to take a nap, I wasn't going to sit there and wait for him to be done with it. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up. I just . . . thought you might want to know."

Adam didn't answer.

Sighing, I headed back up the stairs and exited through the basement door. I could hear Mrs. Nyler messing around in the kitchen with bowls and things, so I walked over there. "Thanks, Mrs. Nyler. I'm leaving now."

She turned around. "Oh! Are you already? You don't want to stay for dinner?" She grinned. "I'm having tacos . . ."

That was certainly tempting. I bet my mom wasn't making tacos. Still, I had the impression that I'd just ruined Adam's day, or week, maybe, and I didn't think he'd want me around for dinner. "No, but thanks. I don't think Adam's real cheerful right now."

Mrs. Nyler nodded her head. "He's been sulking like his dog died for the past few days. Don't ask me why! I'm just his mother." Her sarcasm was clear.

I smiled and said goodbye, wondering if my mom talked that way about me to Adam when he came over. Then I went on my way out the front door. I took a different route home that afternoon, trying my absolute hardest to avoid coming within a mile of Dylan Doyle's doll-infested yard.