Page 143 of Wayfarers

I hold Winslow with my eyes closed. Nothing

has changed. Knox is still here, in arm’s reach,

but it still feels like something is ending,

a way of being that felt endless

until just now.

Knox The Not-So-Great Deceiver

I watch Sylvie as she naps

in the back of the van, or pretends

to. Her eyes don’t flit

like feeding minnows behind

the thin skin of her eyelids the way

they would if she were

actually sleeping, the tempo

of her respiration not quite right.

I’ve known practiced deceivers

in my life. People who lie so easily

even the rhythm of their breath

doesn’t betray them.

Sylvie isn’t one.

Knox

Sylvie rouses in the back and sits up, bleary-eyed, stroking Winslow’s belly absentmindedly. Maybe I was wrong and she really was sleeping.

“Feel better?” I ask.

Sylvie does a sort of side-to-side head motion that’s neither a shake nor a nod. It’s answer enough. Then she says, quietly, “Sorry for putting you through that.”

“There was a lot of chopped cilantro but it was really good otherwise.”

She laughs a little—more a puff of air expelled from between her lips. “My mom’s a trip, huh?” She says it to Winslow, but it’s clear the question is for me.

“I never know what to say when someone asks me something like that. I don’t know if you want me to defend your mom or agree.”

“So it sounds like either you secretly agree and could defend my mom, or could just skip right to agree.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve known a lot of people who were trips in the short time I’ve been alive?”

“My mom is a special kind.” Throughout this conversation, Sylvie hasn’t looked at me once.

A long silence unspools between us.