THINGS ARE NO longer the same in the days that pass as they were in the days that are gone. Sinclair doesn’t leave our hotel room looking drawn, pale and lifeless and he doesn’t return late in the night smelling of alcohol and misery. His days and his nights are spent with me now, and in the brief respites we take between f*****g like rabid animals, we talk just as we did in Willow’s Creek. During those talks, he’s mostly the same as he always was. If there is one difference I can see in him during these talks, it’s that I can tell he’s silently hoping I don’t ask the question that has been floating around in my mind since seeing Timothee’s grave: what happened to him?
Whenever we speak, Sinclair is careful to ensure the conversation doesn’t lead to anything that could segue way us into
