Without Olu. Although, sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. I sort of see him everywhere. Like, when I arrived here, I remembered the way he’d described it and compared everything I saw to the memory of his voice. Even now, I see someone walking toward my bench from the corner of my eye, and some awful, hopeful voice in the back of my mind says, That’s Olu. The fine hairs on my arms stand up like an electric charge has washed over my skin, as if it’s actually him. Then he says, “Griff,” and I almost fall off the bloody bench.
