Chapter 70

He’d done that several times after the accident, on his bike—when he had been sent to the local corner store for items his aunt needed for a recipe but discovered they were out of. It had been painful, very painful, and he’d had to wipe his tears away before returning home. And he remembered those experiences ever afterwards, chewing over the painful lesson that it wasn’t the location that mattered, but the people that were there, sharing your life with you. The house had been like a dead body, a horrific object, bereft of life, only lookinglike the home he remembered.

So, no, he decided, he didn’t need to live that experience again.

Finally, he returned to the bus depot in the wee hours, and settled for the duration in one of the seats in the waiting area—and slept. He was so tired out that he almost overslept, and just caught the bus as it was edging out of the depot.