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This note in Wilbur's handwriting, this note he did not write, is stained with blood. Fresh. Still wet.
So he reads it. What else is there to do?
Tommy—, it begins.
Who’s Tommy?
[or, Wilbur wakes up, and, and, and—]
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And he’s somewhere else, speeding down a highway in a bright red convertible—maraschino cherry red, not blood, not rust. There’s no end in sight, just sky. He’s whooping, freer than he’s ever felt, laughing till he can’t breathe.
There’s someone beside him in the car, someone in the passenger seat with blond curls blown everywhere by the wind, and Wilbur loves him. Wants to keep him safe more than anything. And he can’t slow down, can’t hit the brakes, doesn’t know where he’s going, but it’s fine because he has—because this boy is by his side, this boy he cannot name but clings to in memory.
Memory?
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