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NINE

A nd then, suddenly, he’s standing right there in front of Eddie, wearing his newsboy cap and his scuffed boots. He smiles. Eddie sees that it is a different smile tonight, weary and worn. But those eyes shine.

“Hello, Eddie,” Francis says.

Without thinking, without asking, without looking around or wondering or hesitating, Eddie gets to his feet and walks straight over to Francis. For an instant he fears that it’s just an apparition, a hazy dream in Eddie’s relentless sleeplessness, but then he feels Francis’s arms fold around him, one around his back, the other around his head, pulling it into the recess at the base of his neck. Eddie closes his eyes and leans into Francis’s body. He relaxes, goes limp, allows Francis to support him.

“I’m sorry,” Francis is saying, though Eddie’s barely listening to the words, just feeling the vibrations from his voice box against his forehead. “I’ve been trying to find you, wandering, wondering, wishing. And then I heard you. Find me , you said, and then you said it again, and again, and I followed the trail of Find me s and—”

“And here you are,” Eddie says.

“What are you doing here?” Francis asks.

“Just had to get out.”

“Are you all right?”

Eddie scans Francis’s eyes, then closes his own, picturing Cookie in the oxygen tent. He doesn’t answer. He just presses his nose onto Francis’s neck and inhales. Oh, this scent, like a scent he’s known forever. It fills his lungs, chest, heart. He takes two shallow breaths, and then a third, and then, with conscious effort, a long, patient, deep one all the way into his belly. They stand together, breathing.

After a minute (lifetime, forever), Francis speaks.

“Come on,” he says. “I want to show you something.”