In the frayed chair, with his legs on the footstool. He slept soundlessly and with an open mouth. A few worn teeth were visible in his pale gums. Johnny sat down. Proud of what he’d done, he sincerely believed he was remarkable. Not that he thought he was worth much – no more than a louse, or a centipede, or some other nasty creature that crawled around in the damp dark under a rock: he had no more goals or reasons to live, had no more answers, no greater right to life. He didn’t feel significant or vital, and there was nothing meaningful in his life. He felt disconnected, like when you pull up a weed that can never again take root. Indifferent to life and death, to what happened, to what people might think, he could do as he pleased. What it would lead to didn’t concern him, and it didn’t bother him to think of the consequences. But he felt a bond to the old man asleep in the chair. Where will I go when you are gone? he thought. Who will I visit? Who will I help? This is the only place where I can think clearly.
