27: “Did she see?” the voice on the line said.
The man in the black knit cap pressed the phone against his ear. “No, she did not.”
He sat at a small desk made of pressboard and black plastic, the top littered with paper, colored markers, and drawings. So many drawings. The desk was under a window overlooking the street. Outside, his neighbor walked his dog, a small white Lhasa apso dressed in a red and green sweater. The dog lifted its back leg and peed in the snow. The man in the black knit cap watched the yellow stain grow, a stain besmirching his yard. His neighbor lived ten feet over, yet he walked his dog here every day to pee. The dog finished its business, scratched at the edge of the sidewalk with its stubby back legs, then tugged toward their house.
The wound on the side of his head itched, and he scratched at it, the knit cap shifting position under his fingers, slipping on his bald head.
“The next one will see,” the voice on the other end of the call said. “She will be the one.”
“I hope so.”
“Did you put her where I told you?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Nobody sees me anymore.”
“Did anyone see you?” the voice repeated.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
The man picked up a green marker and began coloring one of the drawings on his desk. His hand began to shake, the ink crossed the lines, and he threw the marker across the room.
He heard a sigh through the phone. The man behind the voice could see him, somehow—he could always see him. “Sooner or later, they all see. It’s just a matter of time.” He was talking about the girls again.
The man in the black knit cap missed the girls. The house seemed so quiet without them. He picked up a red marker, held it to the drawing, and watched his hand begin to shake. He put the marker down, and the shaking stopped. He stretched his fingers out, made a fist, stretched again. The movement felt good, felt normal. He stopped. His hand wasn’t shaking. He picked up the marker. His hand wasn’t shaking. He touched the marker to the paper. His hand did not shake. He began to color. The small lines he made grew longer, wider, the marker taking on a mind of its own, scribbling, the hand shaking. He pressed harder, but it did no good. The ink crossed the lines. The red ink spread over the green he had tried moments earlier, the color turning a muddled brown. The lines of the drawing disappearing under these involuntary scribbles, the image slowly dying under his touch.
He dropped the marker and turned in the chair, facing the room.
His daughter’s red sweater lay crumpled on the floor behind him, her tiny shoes beside the bed.
“I want to get the next one now, before it gets dark,” he said.
“You must be patient.”
He knew the voice was right. The voice was always right.
He scratched at his head again, his nails digging into raw flesh, his fingers coming away moist with blood. “But you’ll tell me when?”
“I will.”
“I’m ready.”
“I know.”
The line went dead then.
The man in the black knit cap turned in the chair, again facing the desk, and set the phone down. He looked out the window. The dog was gone, his neighbor was gone, and the stain in the bright white snow remained.
He picked up a yellow marker and began to color the drawing.