The next morning, Gram and Grampy stopped for coffee and a washroom break right across the border, in Watertown, New York. When I guessed they’d be well away from the RV, I let myself out of the little closet near the back that I’d crammed into as they’d had breakfast in Shan’s kitchen. I needed to go pretty bad myself. It was a bright fall day as I slipped away. I had my pack with some clothes, Griffin’s money, Harley’s mug shots and a couple books. Danny’s neck chain I’d slipped into Shan’s purse, on top of her car keys. Gillian’s email address and cell number were in my head.
I’m not going to tell you where I am now. I’m not going to tell you how much time has gone by. Let’s just say I’m all right and I’m in the territories. If you ever read Huckleberry Finn, you’ll know what I mean. Maybe you’ve even been there.
Sometimes it’s been scary and sometimes okay. I’ve served your burgers and poured your coffee and loaded your shopping cart. I’ve shared a squat with you. I’ve sold you clothes and books. I’ve lined up with you at food banks and shelters and bus stops and libraries and clinics. I’ve sat beside you in freshman English, said yes to you in improv class, even been in a TV commercial you saw and two plays you didn’t. I’ve taken your drinks order and recommended a wine. I’ve done a lot of things, including some I’m not proud of. I’ve never forgotten.
I might be called Adam Davidson, Ben Adams, David Adamson, Adam Gillian, Gill Adams. Or Sean Callahan. Or Frank Rolfe. The name doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m short. I’m a pretty fast runner. I don’t like marshmallows. I keep to myself. I try not to take dumb chances, just do what I have to do. I think I’m loyal. I think I know what’s true. I know where I’ve been. I know where I want to go. Montreal is on that list. One day I’m going to Portland, Oregon, to check the birth records for March 29, 19— well, never mind the year. In the meantime, I send birthday emails to Shan and Gillian. I miss them.
Maybe you’ll meet me. Maybe we’ve already met. It doesn’t matter. I could be anybody, but I’ll know who I am.