A hot August afternoon. Cicadas screaming. A skinny boy with a bad haircut, standing behind the swings.
A fresh pink scar over his left eyebrow. Four stitches. Frankenstein, I’d called him.
Bet you can’t go higher than that!
Watch me!
Two hands, flat on my back.
A shove.
A fall.
A rock.
I clapped my hands over my mouth.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
I just stared at him. At the brown eyes. At the crooked nose. At the scar.
It was the same face. Older. Much older. Lined and tired and silver at the edges.
But it was the same face.
“How,” I whispered through my fingers. “How is it possible that it’s you?”
He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with tears running down his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Let me explain, my love,” Nigel said. His voice was trembling.
