Mindwalker by AJ Steiger Page B

keep my expression calm and inscrutable.
    At last, he lowers his head and gives a small nod. “I just …” His voice is hoarse, cracked. He rakes a trembling hand through his hair. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have asked. I could never ask someone to go through that for me.”
    â€œWell, I’m glad you came to me. I want to help.” I’mpleased that my voice sounds almost normal. I even manage a tiny smile. He doesn’t return it.
    We walk up the stairs, into the living room, and he slips his jacket on. “So …” He trails off awkwardly and shifts his weight.
    â€œWe can meet again tomorrow,” I say. “Why don’t I give you my cell number? You can call me if you need anything.”
    The ghost of a smile twitches across his lips. “Girls aren’t usually this eager to give me their number.”
    Maybe joking is just how he copes with stress, but still, a flush rises into my cheeks. I try to ignore it as I recite my number. He programs it into his phone, which he then slips back in his pocket. “Think you could give me a ride to the nearest monorail station?”
    â€œSure.” I remember the way he devoured the calamari. “Do you want to take some food with you?”
    He squints. “Why?”
    I pause. If he thinks I feel sorry for him, he might not take it. “Oh, I always buy too much. It’s more than I can eat on my own.”
    He chews his lower lip. I can see the longing in his eyes, the hunger. But he shakes his head. “You’re already doing this for free. I don’t feel right taking your food on top of everything else.”
    â€œSteven …”
    â€œI’ll be fine.” He gives me a tiny, one-sided smile. “Really. I get by.”
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake,” I blurt out. “Take
one
thing, at least.”
    He looks startled, then shrugs with one shoulder. “If you insist.”
    In the kitchen, he examines the fruit bowl on my counter, selects a single bright red apple, and slips it into his pocket. At my questioning look, he says, “Been a while since I’ve had one of these. The real thing, I mean, not that genetically engineered crap they serve at school.”
    An apple won’t fill him up, but it’s better than nothing, I guess.
    I drive to the monorail station, a huge concrete building with advertisements shimmering across the walls. People flow in and out through the revolving door as we stand on the sidewalk outside. “Should we meet in the usual place after school?” I ask.
    He nods. After a brief hesitation, he pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Here.”
    I take it. “What’s this?”
    â€œYou wanted to see one of my drawings. Well, here it is.”
    Surprised, I unfold it. Lines of ink stand out, crisp black against the white. A sphinx rears up on its hind legs, wings spread, every feather and furred muscle rendered in exquisite detail. When I study the drawing more closely, a tingle of electricity races down my spine. “It has my face.”
    He doesn’t respond.
    It’s amazing how he’s managed to capture my features so perfectly with just a few strokes of the pen. But the drawing flatters me. I don’t normally have such a determined look in my eyes, do I? Determined, yet somehow haunted and vulnerable at the same time, like a child facing some unspeakable horror. Is this how he sees me?
    Self-conscious, I raise my eyes. “Why a sphinx?”
    â€œNo reason.”
    Lightly, I trace the wings with my fingertips. “It’s beautiful. May I keep it?”
    He fidgets. “Sure. Whatever.”
    â€œThank you.”
    We look at each other in the light of the setting sun. I want to say something to him, but I don’t know what.
Don’t leave,
maybe.
    His gaze flicks away. “See you tomorrow, Doc.” He pulls the apple out of his pocket