helping this dead man come back to life, as Claire said, giving him this final gift. Ultimately, it was because Whitaker saw himself in Kevin. Two selfish fools navigating the world with broken compasses. The only difference was that Kevin had located the Dog Star and found his way back home.
Whitaker craved a way back home, and he wanted to be a part of this journey.
If he had to name one issue with accepting the project, it was that he felt slightly scared. What if he couldn’t do it justice?
Deciding that being scared was not always a bad thing, he continued reading. Wanting to know if Kevin could truly save the boy, Whitaker threw himself right into the third and final composition book. Knowing this story would end prematurely broke Whitaker’s heart. Claire was right. This story needed to go all the way to print.
Whitaker’s heart hurt when Orlando and Kevin got in their first argument. Unable to forgive Kevin, Orlando disappeared, running away from the group home. Kevin spent days looking for him and feared the worst. With only a few pages left, Kevin finally found a clue, hearing that Orlando had returned to his old ways, running with young criminals bound for prison or the grave.
Whitaker had a terrible feeling that either Kevin or Orlando was going to die. And he wasn’t sure he was emotionally prepared.
Then it was over. Whitaker flipped through the blank pages that filled out the rest of the composition book. “You have to be kidding me.”
He dialed Claire’s number, noticing the clock on the cable box read 8:18. In shock, he glanced outside. The teasing colors of dusk confirmed he’d completely lost track of reality.
When she answered, he said, “Where’s the rest of it? Don’t tell me it really stops here, in the middle of the third book.”
“Yes, that’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Have you looked everywhere? He couldn’t have left it like this.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve looked. So you read it?”
Whitaker’s heart was racing. “Yeah, I read it.” He paused, collecting himself.
“And?”
“It’s magnificent, Claire. It really is. I’m so sorry I put you off this long. I’m thoroughly invested.”
He could hear her choking up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said through the crying. “I’m just . . . just happy.”
“You should be. He left you a great story. Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere? I mean, are there other drafts? He wouldn’t have thrown away the first two.” Whitaker stood. “I have so many questions. Did you know he was writing it? Had you read any of it? Do you know the ending?”
“I don’t know the ending at all. You saw his note to me. He wouldn’t let me read it, and he didn’t tell me anything about it. And I can’t find anything else. Maybe he threw the other drafts away.”
“Why would he do that? I still have all my drafts.”
“I don’t know. I’ve gone through everything. The house is empty and sold. All I have left is a few of his business files, his books, his desk and chair. There are no other drafts.”
“Did he write at home or maybe he left something at his old firm? You said he was an architect, right?”
“I cleaned out his desk at work after he died.”
“Can we meet? My brain is exploding right now.”
“You’ll finish the story?” she asked.
“Yes. But there have to be other drafts, more to it. If this is the third draft, then he had to have written the ending. We have answers to uncover first. Are you busy?” He could hear the rapidity of his voice but couldn’t slow down. “Can you come over? Like now?”
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
When Whitaker hung up, he ran to his bedroom to get dressed. Seeing the bed that hadn’t been made in weeks, he realized what he’d just done. Invited a woman into his house. He looked around and felt downright embarrassed. An impressive collection of old water and coffee cups had collected on the bedside table. A layer of dust had settled on the floor. She couldn’t see this pigsty.
He grabbed his phone again and called her. She didn’t pick up. He cursed and dialed again. No answer. “This can’t be happening.”
The disheveled typist ran to the mirror. His hair was ragged, and his mustache needed trimming. There were red vinegar stains on his shirt from the sandwich. “Shiitake on Sunday morning!” he screamed. “Fuck all and hell!” He shucked his clothes and raced into the shower. After the fastest