even more surprised. “Gray? Come in. I was just eating breakfast in the back here. Do you want to join me or is there something I can do for you? How are you?” He seems to have a lot of questions and his sentences run together as though he is speaking exactly what is going through his mind. He looks as disheveled as ever; he needs a haircut and a shave both. He has a plate of food balanced in one hand as he holds open the door with the other.
“Um, sure, I can stay for a bit,” I answer. Well, of course I can, isn’t that what I’m here for? “And I’m alright, thanks. You?”
He takes a bite as the door swings shut behind us and waits a moment to finish chewing before answering me. “Good. Hungry?”
I think of my breakfast feast, sitting in my stomach like a brick and shake my head. I do peer at his plate of food though. “Wait, that smells familiar. Is that Prue leftovers?”
He nods happily. “She said it’s an old family recipe - shepherd’s pie.”
I snort. “It’s an old recipe, alright; all of Prue’s recipes are old. And it isn’t shepherd’s pie, it’s squirrel pie.” I watch his bushy eyebrows for a reaction. They shoot up and take residence in the sandy-colored hair that falls over his forehead and stay there for a minute, before settling back down over hazel eyes. He takes another bite. “I can support squirrel control. Little buggers got into my film last year.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say dryly, “You keep such a clean, organized storeroom.” I look around at my surroundings and gingerly sit down at a small bistro style table. Other than the table, there is a tiny refrigerator, one chair – which I am perched on - a cot with a rumpled quilt and pillow, and lots of both books and boxes stacked everywhere. There is also a tiny counter alongside an even tinier sink and an open door that leads to the world’s smallest bathroom. Does he employ elves?
“Hey,” he chewed, narrowing those hazel eyes, “Did you come here to make fun of my squalor or to see those photos of Rose?” He remembers. Well, of course he remembers; who could forget the girl who tripped over her own feet, made a scene in public, and then cried buckets as he tried to sop up the salty tears with restroom paper towels?
“To see the photos, please,” I say meekly. As meekly as possible. I’ve never been very good at meek, but in my defense I haven’t had much practice.
“Alright then, I’ll get them. Stay away from my squirrel potpie.” He leaves back through the door we had just come through, the one that leads to his shop. I hear drawers opening and closing and then he returns with a folder, a similar one to the one I looked though before. It feels like lifetimes ago, before I knew that Rose was perhaps alive. Will I categorize everything that way now? Before Rose’s Appearance, and After? Everything before seems so fuzzy and distant and so unimportant now. He pulls out three photos and sets them before me. I feel as though there are butterflies in my stomach and whereas last night I was freezing cold, I am hot and sweaty now. I push the hair back from my forehead and neck where tendrils have escaped my ponytail. My hands shake as I lay them back down in my lap and as my eyes focus on the photographs.
It is the girl I saw in the coffee shop. There’s no mistaking the red calico dress, the long sheet of white blonde hair, the tiny frame. As was the case in the original photo of Rose I had seen, she doesn’t seem to be aware that her picture is being taken and she is looking away, off to the side. Her feet are bare; I hadn’t noticed that before. Was that the case when she sat in the leather armchair in the coffee shop? Has she no shoes? Is my sister suffering? I wonder as a lump forms in my throat and threatens to make me cry. The same dress, no shoes. What if she’s only just arrived here, in modern day America? Is she used to traveling, to being Lost? What if the magic or power that we have has only just begun to materialize in her? Is she scared, confused? The tears building up behind