Inkling

3.6 The Sinking Feeling

7:35 A.M.

Neither of them had said anything in much too long. Max was inspecting the building behind Lincoln, his hands clasped behind his back. Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say when Max spun around, his eyes wild.

"I swear this building was taller." Lincoln squinted at him.

"You were probably smaller last time you were here." Lincoln said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands until he saw stars.

"That's no excuse for the building to have shrunk."

"Truly."

It was a sudden decision, like his body knew before his mind did. Lincoln's feet started moving toward the lodging house across the street. Whether he had finally found the courage to go, or if he just needed to escape the subject of sinking buildings was not important. His feet found a familiar path, the way he walked up the street right down the middle, how he veered to the right up the front steps because the middle squeaked unbearably loud for his quiet. His hand found the doorknob without looking, pulled the heavy oak open with the exact amount of force required. Noises faded away, he was vaguely aware of Max running after him, but all he could focus on was the top of the stairs. That landing with the familiar door that, to an untrained eye, looked exactly like all the rest. But Lincoln saw the little notches in the wood where he had held a crate with his hip while searching for his keys. He saw the holes where his mother nailed in a greeting poster for every holiday. His mother.

He could not go in and suddenly wished he lived another floor up. That maybe if he had more time to walk he could bring himself to go into that room. The room where they had played cards and cooked meals, where they had danced and argued and hugged - where they had lived. There would be no living there now, not in the place where she had died.

Lincoln wanted to turn around but his body kept moving forward as if on its own accord. Maybe he could not turn around to face Max. He could not look into his eyes like his mother's pecan pie and explain why he could not go in. Because Max would ask, he had known him for so little time and yet he was certain: Max would ask and he would tell him. So Lincoln kept moving.

His hands were not shaking when he reached for the doorknob, though he had been certain they would be. He had to practically fling himself through the door, for fear that he would not make it in if he didn't. This resulted in the door slamming against the thin wood wall with a great cracking sound, and everyone inside staring at him in surprise. It was about this time that Lincoln realized how he must look. He saw himself in the mirror on the opposite wall, shirt half-way untucked and his waistcoat open, his hat was muddy and scuffed and his eyes were red with exhaustion.

"Well if that isn't a fucking entrance." A familiar, yet oddly unfamiliar voice said quietly, heard only because everyone else remained silent and staring.