Forty-One
Magic Wallet
It’s still dark. Disorienting to fall asleep when it’s dark and to wake up with it still dark.
I actually don’t even know where I am.
“Humboldt …” I lift my pounding head toward the sound of his breathing.
Except it’s not Humboldt’s breathing—it’s Finan’s.
I’m on my couch, warm under one of my Merino wool knitted blankets. Finan’s asleep in the overstuffed leather armchair across from me, his boots off, his sock-covered feet propped on my coffee table, a plaid wool blanket draping his torso. His head is turned to the right, and the light from the side-table lamp outlines the scar I gave him so many years ago.
I sit up and squint at the throbbing-green Lutris tablet, trying to see the digital clock tucked into the upper right corner: 3:13 a.m.
I need my phone.
