I’m too depressed to eat. When Beverlee brought me home from school, the first thing she did was call and set an appointment for me. It’s good and bad that she managed to get me in as early as tomorrow morning. Good because if it were any later I would almost definitely be missing my trip to Portland. Bad because I’m about fifteen hours away from being poked and prodded with needles and I’m contemplating right now about whether to pack a bag and hitchhike out of Maine.
But the needles have nothing to do with my depression.
Viktor Vargas has everything to do with it. Isaac has everything to do with it.
I look out over the field that surrounds our house from the roof that covers the wraparound porch and I wish I could see everything clearly in my life as clearly as I see the landscape. I started coming up here one night when I ventured into the dusty attic. The box window on the front side opens out onto the roof and I couldn’t resist climbing out here and taking advantage of the solitude.
