My name's Miles and I'm nineteen and I never take my sunglasses off. Not to be cool or anything, just to pretend that I'm normal. I sound like a weird guy I know, probably look weird too, but if you could see me, you'd understand. I wish I could 'understand' too if you know what I mean.
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[MILES' POV]
Andrews patted my back. I felt his usual clammy hands through my polo shirt. Every morning he'd sit by me, asking me how I was doing.
Andrews described himself as young, handsome, muscular, but I knew this was a lie. His speech was always slurred and croaky, like an old drunken man. But Andrews didn't drink, I could tell by his breath.
"Morning," I said, adjusting my arm to fit comfortably around his back.
"Miles I need to give you this," he announced.
I shuffled in my seat, pausing in confusion at his sudden abruptness. He opened my hand, and I felt a creased scrap of paper on my palm. I rubbed my thumb and finger against it, feeling the indent of the pencil marks, feeling the letters and lines and patterns.
This note held some kind of information that Andrews couldn't tell me in person, information that I'd never know.
