“Ah. It’s tough. But are any of us really free?”
Wren wanted to say he was. He wanted to tell Rufus about a song his mom listened to, by some raspy-throated woman who had died long before Wren was even thought of. There was a line in that song about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose.
Maybe being poor was the ultimate freedom.
Hey, look at me, Ma. I’m free!
Wren said, “I’d like to think some of us are, or as much as we can be, anyway.”
Rufus, surprisingly, nodded. “Dave gives me my freedom by erasing any chance I’ll use again. You know what? And don’t laugh at this. But I am not a half-bad writer. That was always my big dream—to write that Great American Novel.”
I know. I know. I’ve read some of it. Wren didn’t dare voice the words, but he so wanted to. He wante
