“You’re not real,” I whispered.
I looked down at my hands. They were translucent. The boy in the Polaroid had grown up, but only as a ghost. The shadow in the fedora was the one who’d lived my life. ksb1981
The shadow smiled. “Now, KSB1981, you whistle me back in.” “You’re not real,” I whispered
Below that, a single Polaroid had been stapled. A boy, about ten years old, stood in the center of a bleached-white desert. He wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at his own shadow, which was not his own. The shadow was taller, leaner, and wore a fedora. “You’re not real
And for the first time since that forgotten June, I did.
“What happens now?” I asked.
I drove to the Salt Flats.