GERALD WAS tapping on the glass trying to get my attention. Terrence was in the middle of speaking. I tried to banish the image of Peter’s lifeless body hanging upside down with his head underwater.
“…I just need to pin down the locations,” Terrence said. “I feel like the bells know. They call to each other.”
“Terrence. They’re bells.”
I expected rage or sarcasm for questioning him, but before me was just my friend. My sad friend wearing a T-shirt of a band he didn’t know or like. My friend who was struggling just like me.
“I don’t know how I know,” Terrence said. “I just do.”
One of the old books on the table was open to a page with a drawing of a boy reaching into a man’s pocket. Beneath it was another drawing of a hand reaching into the silhouette of a man’s head. Hand-drawn staves
