I sigh. “That one’s unlikely, I suppose, but it’s the most intriguing of options. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. The point is that I was not wanted by anyone. I lived with seventeen families. That’s a lot, huh?” I burp and clap a hand over my mouth. “Excuse me. Anyway, some of the families were okay. I know what other foster kids have gone through, and I never had it as bad as many. Still, sometimes I never even unpacked my suitcase. Too scared to. There was no point.” The gin is becoming a nuisance, but I can’t fight it.
“That’s why you have walls,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s why I have walls.”
I feel him come closer, his mouth now not so far from my ear. “But you lowered them, even for a little bit. So maybe you want them to crack.”
Without my usual filter in place, I reply, “Yes. Maybe. It’s very tiring, keeping them standing. I just don’t know what would happen if I let them fall. I haven’t been without them in a very long time,” I murmur. “Maybe ever.”
“I understand. And I’m honored that you gave me a glimpse behind them, because I’ve never felt anything like that. So, watch.” He hits “Play.” “This is the original. Other sites that picked it up gave it gross clickbait names and whatever. I can’t control that—”
“Shhhh!”
Music plays, and I tense but do not turn away. Esben is right. I need to watch this because I need all the information. I must know what is out there about me.
The title slams out of darkness:It Only Takes 180 Seconds.
Videos and words wash by. Clips of the first seconds of people who sat with Esben, interspersed with later moments from his other sittings.
There’s the elderly man that I saw when Steffi first sent me this link. His cane stands next to him, and he smiles peacefully throughout his time with Esben. He exudes a kindness and approachability that touches me. Like a grandfather I will never have.
The text reads:Some people share their contentment and absolute joy with the world so easily. It’s infectious.
Then there’s a woman in her business suit, who looks exhausted beyond reason. I watch her focus, the way her face softens, and the way she relaxes into eye contact.
A mother with four children under the age of five. She works during the day as a manager at a department store, and she never has weekends off. She also works three nights a week as a hostess so that her family can pay their bills. Because her husband works nights, they only see each other for a handful of hours per week. But she says that’s enough because love always wins. Or, rather, she clarifies, she wants it to.
A firefighter who is still in a sooty uniform appears; his hardened and defeated face is gutting.
This man just got off a fifteen-hour shift. He rescued three people from a building engulfed in flames. He’s proud, but he’s also upset because he missed his six-year-old’s birthday. He’s worried that she will remember that forever.
Then there’s a middle-aged woman with beautiful braids and skin the color of coffee. Her face blank, she shows almost no expression in the clips we see, just flashes of watery eyes on occasion.
This woman lost her husband exactly one year ago today. She says this is the first time she’s been able to escape the worst of her grief, even for a few minutes.
I watch the rest of the clips—including the one with Esben and the guy wearing the motorcycle jacket—both anticipating and dreading my appearance.
He’s saved me for the end.
My fingers brush against his when I take the mouse and pause the video. I turn to him. “You mean a lot to these people,” I say, a new understanding coming over me.
“They mean a lot to me.” Esben looks at me with such warmth and sincerity that I can hardly take him in. “I just gave them a chance to let the world stop spinning. What they did with that was out of my hands.”
I get what he’s saying. I’ve lived it.
“Keep watching.” There’s a nervous yet hopeful edge to his whisper.
Hesitating, delaying this, I cannot get myself to start the video because I fear the world—ormyworld—might blow up if I do. The computer’s mouse feels hard and threatening against my palm.
Esben’s hand goes over mine. “It’s okay.”
Together, we hit “Play.”
CHAPTER 10
ROBIN HOOD
Sometimes, the unexpected happens. Sometimes, someone makes you break your own rules, I read.
