Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

And there he was at last, in the room, Hawk, the silhouette of his figure visible in the dark. Fuller lit a match and held it under his face, which blazed up like one of the La Tour paintings Tim had seen in Paris. He walked forward. “Take your scarf.” Tim rose from the blanket and slid the muffler, knitted by his mother, from Hawkins’ neck, while with the hand not holding the match, Fuller reached into his pocket for a candle. Lighting it, he looked for a place to prop it up and, unable to find one, he let it drip a wax base onto one of the turret’s windowsills. Tim’s spirit leapt with a deduction: He hasn’t been up here with anyone else; he would already have figured out the problem with the candle if he had. He made this place for us. Fuller reached into the other pocket of his suit, which in the candle’s new light, Tim could see, bulged with a paper bag. From it Fuller extracted a pint bottle of milk. He pulled off its small cap and tossed the little circle of cardboard onto the blanket, like a poker chip.