The lunch table has a new person sitting there. Technically, he's not actually new, he's been there the past two days. But the vibe among the three is still tentative. This is a trial. And its success may just depend on the fourth.
The fourth hasn't been there the past two days. But he's definitely there today. They all spot him in the lunch line. They wait for him to walk over and join. He bolts in the other direction. He thinks they don't see him. They do.
There are three people at the lunch table today, like there has been for months, and yet it feels empty.
Somewhere far away, the most horrid music comes from a tungsten carbide box, and something thrashes to get out. Researchers rush to scene to try to figure out what's going on; it's not due for inspection any time soon, and everything was fine last inspection.
The notes clamor, begging to be let out. It hasn't behaved like this in a long time. It doesn't even know why it feels this way. It just knows something is very, very wrong.
Today, a boy has returned home and found the locks changed.
He should be sleeping. They both should be. But neither can. Not even the dog seems to be sleeping well.
If his eyes water, he can't help it. He's just tired. If a tear escapes, he can't help that either, he has to yawn. And if his breathing comes in short, ragged gasps, as if he's never going to get the chance to breath again—
The other boy can take it no longer. He gently lowers himself from his bed onto the trundle, and before either can say a word, he pulls the boy into a hug. Surprising them both, the boy does not pull away. He simply does his best to not cry into the other boy's shoulder, and the other boy just keeps hugging.
Slowly, the boy's pained cries quiet. The hiccups slow, the breathing returns to normal. When it begins to sound like snoring, the other boy gently raises himself back onto his own bed.
The two don't speak of it again. They don't get the chance.
A mother didn't get much sleep last night either. Her son didn't come home and her husband won't tell her anything.
She wakes to find a note in her mailbox.
There are two letters on the lunch table today. He simply wasn't sure how else to do it. The others ask for an explanation. What little he can say doesn't help.
The lunch table feels hollow.
In the middle of the day, a therapist finds one of her patients waiting outside her door. It's the middle of the day, and he should be in school, and she's about to tell him so, but then she gets a good look at him.
The boy looks exhausted in every way; he's breathing heavy, like he walked all the way across town to find her, he has bags under his eyes, and his eyes seem glazed over, like he's lost all will to do anything. She just saw him two days ago, and he was hurting then, but he didn't seem this bad. What the hell happened?
It's not that she's never been told what to do in this situation; its that she hoped she would never have to deal with a situation like this.
She has an appointment, and tells him as much, and asks him to wait in the waiting room. He does so, patiently, for hours. Or maybe he's just spacing out. Finally, a cancellation. She asks him into the room and calmly asks him what has happened.
He takes a deep breath. He has a lot of explaining to do.
In room 221-D, a gentle tapping can be heard. The sound gets louder until a researcher checks on it. A calculator has fallen against the window. It seems it's done this multiple times.
The researcher wonders aloud what's happening.
HE NEEDS ME is the only reply. HE NEEDS ME. PLEASE. But the researcher can't help.
A mother picks up her boy from an office park. She has a bag packed with his clothes in the back. Neither says a word on the way to the hotel.
Two boys discuss their relationship, old yet budding, and deep yet fragile. They discuss the boy who has been missing for days. They don't even know how to begin to look for him. They pet a dog who looks mournfully out the window, waiting for her owner to return.
A cassette tape and player are dropped off at a house with recently changed locks. The man inside listens to it.
He is never the same again.
The dog returns to her owner, surprising her sitter. The sitter begs the owner to stay.
Mistakes are made.
The owner leaves. The sitter calls his boyfriend, tells him where to find a boy and his dog. The boyfriend rushes over.
Mistakes are made.
Weeks have passed and the lunch table still feels empty. The girl looks over at the two boys. Both of them are hiding something. It doesn't take long to get the truth.
At least one version of it. The new boy is still hiding something, something he wasn't hiding last week. She leaves, and the table feels emptier than ever.
The boy and his mother are in a hotel room, far away. They don't even know how to talk about what has happened.
He don't know if he can forgive her. She don't know if she can be forgiven. But they can't make it without each other.
They eat pizza and watch TV, and each hopes the right words will come to the other person.
They don't.
On an elevated plinth, a paperback journal trembles.
A new page is photographed and saved for later analysis.
PLEASE STOP I'm sorry I said the thing about gutting you I will stop calling you a pig if you will stop this pain please stop the pain please it hurts so much I can feel your pain and it hurts me and I will find you and comfort you if you will just STOP PLEASE IT HURTS STOP STOP PLEASE I CAN'T BREATH IT HURTS AND I CANNOT BEAR THIS PAIN ANY LONGER PLEASE STOP THIS ERIC
In a hotel bathroom in the dead of night, Eric is doubled over, and for the first time all week, he allows himself to sob.