Where They Wait

by Scott Carson

“I’m sorry, Bob,” I said. “And thank you. Truly. Thank you for telling me what you just did. It’s important.” “It’s in the past,” he said. I shook my head. “I wish it was, but it’s not.” “You feelin’ all right, son?” “I’m fine.” “Looking peaked.” “I’m fine.” I took a breath and stepped back. “Thanks again. And I’m sorry. For all of it.” He looked nonplussed now. “Nothing for you to apologize for. Wasn’t your idea, not any of it. Rosewater is not a good place for you. Wasn’t then, isn’t now.” “Excuse me?” He frowned with what seemed real concern. “If you’re hearing shit that’s not real, son? I’m no scientist, no one like your mother—and some people say she was a genius, the real deal, a no-doubt genius—but what she was doing felt risky to me. When a boy—or a man—gets to hearing things that aren’t real…” He shook his head. “The last thing you should tell him is that you hear it, too. That ain’t good.”