1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back
and preparing to close the door.
“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”
He nods and swings the door closed.
But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping.
“Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a
resolute tone. “He’s fine.”
And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and
confused.
What does that mean?
I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?
He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means
he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.
But I don’t feel happy.
He’s fine. He lives here. He’s not home right now. Everything’s normal.
Nothing’s changed.
So if he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army, then why the hell
isn’t he writing me anymore?
I spin around and charge for my Jeep, knowing what Ryen, Misha’s
friend, would do. She’d never give up. She’d keep writing with undying
loyalty, trusting that he has a good reason.
But the Ryen that Misha doesn’t know, the survivor, is taking hold right
now, and she doesn’t like being played with.
You know my address, asshole. Use it or don’t.
I’m not holding my breath anymore.