Page 150 of 72 Hours of You

That’s his big idea? “Peter—”

But instead of sitting down next to me, Peter walks back down the steps toward the Clocker. My heart leaps into my throat. What the actual fuck does he think he’s doing?

He gets closer to Probably Thomas and says something that makes the guy look up. I lean forward to get a better look through the stoop’s wrought-iron handrail. Peter says something else, then gestures back toward me. Probably Thomas nods, slowly, and then gives me a little head-tilt hello. I raise my hand and give him a half wave back. And I am fully outside my body because literally what is happening right now?

Peter turns back to the Clocker and keeps talking. The corners of the guy’s mouth curl just slightly. Peter keeps gesticulating and chatting until Probably Thomas laughs and shrugs. Peter hands him the hot dog. The guy looks down at it like it’s a bar of gold. He says something back to Peter, but Peter waves him off in this It’s no big deal sort of gesture. He holds out his hand to shake Peter’s. They shake hands. Probably Thomas pauses. And then pulls Peter into a hug.

The Clocker slides his bag over his shoulder and takes a bite of his hot dog at the same time I take a bite of mine. I’m totally wrapped up in this insane scene I’m watching play out in front of me. Then he pats Peter on the shoulder one more time and heads back down the street in the other direction.

Peter waits for a second, watching him walk away, before turning around and heading back toward me.

“What,” I say, “the fuck was that?”

Peter shrugs. “I gave him a hot dog.”

Eighteen

HE GAVE HIM A HOT DOG. He says this like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just walk right up to a Clocker and interact with him. Talk to him. Make him laugh. Hand him free street meat.

Rule #3: Don’t get involved.

“You can’t just … just … do stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” I say. “Bad things happen when you get involved!”

Peter studies me for a second, glancing down at my hand, which is shaking just slightly. I squeeze my knee to make it stop.

“Look,” I say, pulling his attention away from my traitorous fingers. “It’s not a good idea to try to change things. I told you. It’s bad. It’s … What did you guys even talk about, anyway?”

Peter leans back on the steps and then launches into a retelling of his hot-dog delivery. Apparently Probably Thomas is actually Gordon. And Gordon has been forgetting stuff lately. Little things, like his granddaughter’s drawing—that’s what he was looking for—which may or may not be back at his office, and big things, like his anniversary, and once which street his apartment was on. He feels older than he is, and it’s getting to him. At first it was just a few missing words here and there, but now the holes are bigger, blacker. And he’s afraid to tell his family. He doesn’t want his wife to worry. She just beat lung cancer (she never smoked a day in her life!), and everyone is still recovering from that. Especially his daughter. He and his wife are supposed to go on an Antarctic cruise next month to celebrate her clean bill of health. She wants to breathe the cold blue unpolluted air up north into her raw lungs. They booked an excursion where you get to eat on top of a glacier. But now he can’t even remember where that goddamn drawing is. And Kinzy—that’s his granddaughter—she worked so hard on it. She’s been practicing her cats—or was it dogs?—all week. She draws constantly. Their guest room is littered with her drawings, hearts and stars and weird half-monkey things all over the carpet. But this one was for him. And he promised her he’d keep it safe.

“You got all that from a hot dog?”

“He just needed someone to see him for a minute,” Peter says. “The hot dog did help, though. He said it reminded him of when he first moved here. There’s a place that used to give them away during happy hour and that’s how he survived law school.” He probably really did get mustard on his ties.

I look back to the now empty stoop down the street. This is a lot of information. Like, a shit ton, really. I dig my thumbnail through my thin leggings, pressing a half moon into the knee skin underneath.

What am I supposed to do now? Now that Peter blowtorched Rule #3? Now that I know this rumpled Mark Ruffalo look-alike is never going to make it on that cruise? Now that I know Kinzy and her catdog drawings exist?

“What was the point of all that?” I say. “You can’t change anything.”

“I’m not trying to change things,” Peter says, “for anyone but you.”

“Me?” I look up at him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“If the worst part for you is not being able to do something … I thought … well, I thought maybe this would help. He was sad, and then he wasn’t. Now you don’t have to spend all day thinking about how beaten down he looked. Now you can think about how he’s going to go home and tell Patricia about his memory stuff.”

“Who the fuck is Patricia?”

“His wife.”

Right. Of course.

“He’s still going to die,” I say. “You know that, right? It’s not like he’s going to go home and tell her and they’re going to make some emergency doctor’s appointment and save him. You do know that.”

“I know.”