was probably not an accident. When you live so long, you have to keep yourself hidden from view. At some point people must notice you never grow old, or that you never eat food.
Yet after everything I had seen and done during the last few weeks, I was beginning to realize that most humans noticed very little. As long as their paychecks arrived and their cable television worked, they were happy to live very limited lives. It worried me that I lived in a country full of people who could be made content so easily. I suppose that’s why the Council exists, because humans are content with their ignorance.
I managed to drift off, lost in my thoughts. After a few moments I caught myself and when I glanced up, I saw that William was watching me. For the remainder of his set I focused on his performance, appreciating his skill with a guitar. He seemed to be able to make his instrument ache with sadness, and I knew without a doubt that William Ferrell had seen his share of misery. Twenty minutes later, they finished their set and were quickly besieged by friends and fans. I stayed back at the bar, unsure of my place, but it wasn’t long before William separated himself from the crowd and walked over to me.
“Don’t you want to stay with your friends?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They’re not my friends.”
“So what should we do now?” I asked, feeling a little like I was back in junior high.
“Now we get out of here,” he said, grabbing my hand. We packed up his guitar and banjo and said goodnight to his band. Once again, they did not seem at all surprised to see me leave with him.
“Did you know you would see me again?” I asked, hating myself for needing to know.
“Yes.”
“Did you expect me to come find you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come find me?” I asked, feeling like I was doing all the work.
“How do you know I didn’t?” he said.
“Did you stay away because of Elsa?”
“I know enough to stay out of her way. Let’s put it like that.”
“So what changed your mind?”
“Nothing. I am playing with fire, just like you are.” He said. “I wanted to make sure you had the courage to try. This life is not for the faint of heart.”
We walked outside with his gear and strolled round the block. There, parked on a nearby street, was a brand new black Subaru wagon. I laughed.
“You were expecting a black horse maybe,” he said sharply. “I’m not a character in a novel, Olivia. I live in this world, just as you do.”
“Ouch,” I said, laying my hand over my heart. “I laughed because it seems like such a practical car. I was expecting something more rebellious. Like a motorcycle.”
“A motorcycle,” he said. “Darlin, those things will kill you.”
I laughed, once again reminded of how much I liked his sense of humor. He unlocked the car and opened the passenger door so I could climb in. I realized I had no idea where we were going, but I could wait to find out.
Moments later, after passing through the Castro and past Dolores Park, we were pulling into the driveway of a lovely Victorian home on the edge of the Mission. William pressed the button on an opener fastened to the sunshade of his wagon and pulled inside the garage. From there he led me up a set of stairs.
William lived in a very old, well-restored two-story home. As we reached the top of the stairs, we faced a small living room with a fireplace. The room was decorated just the way I would have done it myself: a combination of old and new, a bohemian mix of deer antlers, wooden antique furniture, and a smidgen of modern touches that respected the age of the house.
“Can I have a tour?”
William nodded and walked me from room to room. Next door to the living room was another small room that had been converted into a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. A brilliant red-and-orange antique Afghan carpet covered the wooden floors, which looked to be the home’s original planks. In one corner of the library sat a chocolate brown leather chair with a brass library lamp leaning over its arm. The shelves were neatly arranged, but I could see that William had been collecting books for decades.
There were first editions of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I spied several biographies of Winston Churchill as well as