It’s a run-down place off Route 5 with a light out in their vacancy sign. I wonder how long he’s been living here. When I park in front of his room, there is a tug of sadness. I don’t want this day to end. I don’t want Harlin to go. As if sensing my mood, he turns to me and smiles. “Did you want to come in?” he asks. My heart kicks up its beats. “Well,” I say. “You’ve already seen my place.” He waits as I turn off the car and climb out. I almost reach for his hand but stop myself—surprised by how comfortable I am with him. The room is small, but immaculate. There are two beds, although one has a sleeping bag on top of it. In the corner is a small desk, and I notice the sketch pad lying there. “You’re very neat,” I say, walking toward the desk. “Were you a well-behaved child?” Harlin grins. “No.” I touch the edge of the sketch pad and look over my shoulder at him. “Can I?” I ask. He hesitates, but then nods before going to sit on the bed. I open to the first page: a landscape of a beach, the ocean at low tide.
