Page 29 of Wayfarers

Sylvie It Takes Forever,

the ER does. We agree on that.

Mostly we don’t talk on the drive in

because I can tell he’s trying

not to bite his lip through. It isn’t

until we hit the Traverse City

city limits that I catch up to it:

I let a strange man

in my car. He’s my age,

give or take, but his silence,

his dark tan, light eyes, how bright

the sun has bleached his hair—

there’s nothing in-between about him.

He’s an adult. For me, eighteen has only

ever been a way station. The tee

holding up the wiffle ball. All of it

practice for a life I wasn’t living yet

until I was. Tonight, coming to

on US-31, the hospital looms up

on the hill above us

like something I should be afraid of,

but I’m not.

Sylvie

“They said it’ll still be a little while.” I sit back down next to him in the waiting room. “Which probably means they’ll see you next week or something.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m not bleeding out of my eyes. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s your line in the sand, huh? Eye bleeding?”

“There’s probably an earlier line but I’m not thinking super clearly.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to lecture me on getting my dog trained.”

“Am I? I’m no good at lectures.”

“You won’t hurt my feelings. Go on. Lay it on me.”