Panopticon. David Bajo

      “How I know where to find you?” The young man opened his thin hand, like spun sugar. “Like this? Right here, ahorita?”

      “Who is ‘we’?” Klinsman looked around, at the sky, at the empty grass of the park where the barn used to stand.

      The young man smiled, an almost flat spread of his lips, amused at the very ends. “That would put us into your story.”

      “I won’t put you in.” Klinsman gazed steadily at him. “As you will see. I don’t even want to write the story. I’ll make one up. Like I always do.”

      Klinsman held his fingers above the red dirt clod. “See? For me, it’s more about this. What’s underneath. That’s what I’ll write about.”

      The young man picked up the clump and held it to the sunlight. Then he slipped it into the pocket of his coat, nodded once, and turned to leave, hunched, hands slung into pockets.

      “But what could you do if I did?” Klinsman asked. “If I did put you into the story?”

      Douglas Cook, a trembling compass needle, spun toward the laptop. His fingers flashed over the keys, thumb stinging once at the end. The image of their park bench returned to the screen. In this one the young man appeared, in the same coat but with his mismatched shoes reversed. Klinsman was not there.