“What happens now?” I asked.
And for the first time since that forgotten June, I did.
I drove to the Salt Flats.
The shadow smiled. “Now, KSB1981, you whistle me back in.”
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.
“What happens now?” I asked.
And for the first time since that forgotten June, I did.
I drove to the Salt Flats.
The shadow smiled. “Now, KSB1981, you whistle me back in.”
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.