Page 127 of The Sound of Him

“I guess. Yeah.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I mean, it's nice to know that what I do matters.”

“Mm.”

“Okaaay.” I go to take a drink before remembering he took away the empty glass. I might pout a little. He doesn't call me outon it. “Since that's not whatyouthink, why don't you share with the class?”

He chuckles, but nods his head as if to sayfair enough.“I'm just thinking of a Gameboy. Of a little boy who thought he'd been handed the world, when all it really was was a piece of tech from a forgotten box under Keaton's bed.”

My throat suddenly feels a little tight.

I remember that Gameboy. I still have it, carefully placed on a shelf in my office for however long I stay here before returning to the shelf at my place back home that holds all my most prized mementos.

Even if I didn't have it, though, I'd remember. The weight of it. The shape. The color. The soft buzzing sound when it started up. The whirring of the fan when it got hot. The pixilated screen that seemed so advanced at the time. That Gameboy - just like the boy who gave it to me - saved my life. It showed me that there was still color in the world. There was still hope. Happiness. The music soothed me, but it was the Gameboy that made me feel alive. I think maybe the first time I ever smiled was when he turned it on for me.

Keaton had given it to me my second night in their house. “It's not much. Beat to hell, really,” he'd said. Knowing him how I do now, I think he was probably bashful about it. Maybe nervous or self-conscious. But all I remember was how big and strong andcoolhe seemed. I remember how blown away I was that this guy - thishero, this man whosavedme - was giving me something of his. Something that was surely important. More important than I could ever be. Than I could ever even deserve.

“It's like the book I showed you yesterday,” he'd added as he started up a game so he could show me how it worked. He was referring to the picture book he had bought from the store earlier that day. A book about a turtle who was afraid of the dark. He never said, and I never asked, but I don't think it wasa coincidence. I think even after pulling me from the closet, he was doing his damndest to keep saving me. “But instead of just reading the story, you get to be a part of it. See?”

I had been captivated.

“What did it feel like, to be on the other side of that situation?” Adam asks, his voice quiet, understanding. Like he knows my head is only half here right now, the rest of it two decades away “Ace?”

“You know, that's not my name.”

He makes a soft sound, something he could probably pull off as thoughtful or understanding with someone else, but I know him too well. It's wounded. A surprise blow.

I don't know why I said it. I didn't even realize I was thinking of it.

“I do know that,” he admits. He leans forward, resting on his forearms. I stare at his knuckles. They're scarred. I've never asked why. “None of us were sure if you remembered that.”

“If I remembered my real one, or remembered it'snotmy real one?”

“Either. Both.” He tilts his head at me, eyes soft. “I would have asked you, the first time we spoke. But you introduced yourself as Ace. I wanted to respect that.”

“It's what he called me, when he found me.”

“Keaton,” he says more than asks.

I nod anyway. “Yeah.I've got ya, Ace, he'd said.”

It was alongside other things, of course.Hey, buddy, whatcha doing in here?andYou hurt anywhere, kiddo?andHow bout a sip of water, yeah, little man?But I had likedAce.

No one hurting me had ever called me Ace before.

“Do you remember? What your name was?”

I look away from him.

I don't want to answer that.

“I'm jealous of them,” I admit instead. And, yeah, okay -where the fuck did that come from?I haven’t had the time to feel that way in weeks. I’ve forgotten all about that loneliness from watching them all show up together and lean on each other. I’ve had way too much shit to do.

“The survivors?” he clarifies. I lean forward and reach for the glass he took away from me, then the bottle of scotch. He doesn’t stop me as I pour myself a second round. I pour him one too. He just glances at it before looking back at me. “Why are you jealous of them?”

I swallow a mouthful of scotch. “Because they’re athem.”