The boy is asleep on the couch above me. He has taken his towels-for-blankets and has arranged himself on the end of the couch, his feet neatly stuffed into the cushions. And now he is whimpering. He is having a nightmare, his face contorted like a toddler’s, his petulant frown robbing him of years. But I am less sympathetic now. There are no clocks visible, though it feels like the middle of the night. There are no traffic sounds outside. It could be midnight or later. Achor Achor, I don’t want to curse you but this situation would be much different if you saw fit to come home. I like and admire Michelle, and I am proud of you for having found an American who loves you, but at the moment I think your behavior is irresponsible. At the same time, I wonder how the burglars knew that you would be gone, that they could be sure about leaving their son, their sibling, here. It is hard to understand. They are either brilliant or simply reckless. I wonder what images are troubling you, TV Boy.
