“Say yes or say no. Don't guess.”
His face goes through three colors in about four seconds. He looks over my shoulder at the water. He looks at my chest. He looks at my mouth. He looks at my eyes.
“Yes,” he says.
“Yes, you understand or yes, you're coming.”
“Both.”
I do not smile.
I want to smile.
I do not let my face smile because if I smile he is going to misread it asthis is a soft thing we are doing,and this is not a soft thing. Or it is not only a soft thing. Or I do not know yet what this thing is. What I know is that if I smile at him on this pier the kid follows me into the harbor and drowns.
“Okay,” I say. “You walk behind me. Not next to me. Not holding anything. Ten minutes up the boardwalk. If someone from the team drives by and sees us, you are a rookie who gotlost and I am giving you directions back to your apartment. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Walk.”
He walks.
The place is called the Harbor Arms.
It is four stories of brick on the corner of Water and Market, two blocks off the boardwalk. The kind of building that was a workers' boardinghouse ninety years ago and is a weekly-rate hotel now. The kind of place that does not ask questions if you pay on the first of the month in cash. The lobby is a counter, a plastic plant, and a radiator. The clerk is not at the counter. The clerk is never at the counter. That is one of the reasons I come here.
I go up the stairs. Theo follows behind me by three steps. His sneaker laces make a soft sound on the stair carpet.
Second floor. Hallway. Number nine.
I unlock number nine.
I hold the door. He steps in. I shut the door. I turn the lock.
The room is a room. A queen bed with a faded duvet. A chair. A small table. A lamp that was designed to be cheap. A bathroom off to the side. A window that looks at the brick of the building next door. A rug that has seen things the rug does not want to talk about. On the dresser is a paper bag with a brand-new pack of condoms and a bottle of lube I bought last month and have not opened. On the nightstand is an ashtray and an unopened pack of cigarettes I keep for after.
Theo stands in the middle of the rug.
He has his backpack still on one shoulder.
I take it off him.
I take the strap in two fingers and lift it off his shoulder and set the bag against the foot of the bed. He lets me. He does not help. He does not resist. His arms come down to his sides as soon as the strap is clear.
He is shaking.
Not a lot. Not a shiver. His hands are at his sides and his fingers are doing a very small vibration, and a muscle on the side of his jaw is doing a very small jump. His breathing is the four-seven-eight thing he does, and he is doing it badly, because his four is a two.
“Breathe,” I say.
“I am.”
“You're not. Four in. Seven hold. Eight out. Again.”
He breathes. Four in. Seven hold. Eight out.
“Again.”
