Lost Boy by Tim Green

You should close your eyes.”
    A computer sat atop the old wooden desk and, using thejerky motion of his right arm, Mr. Starr managed to press something that brought the screen to life. With a wide sweep, he brought what looked like a microphone on the end of a bendable metal neck so that it stayed within inches of his mouth. He dropped his twisted hand onto a touchpad. Using the combination of a hooked finger on the pad and words he muttered into the microphone, he began to navigate the Web in search for Jimmy Trent.
    Ryder leaned over and curled his legs up on the couch. He put his head onto a velvety crimson pillow that matched the cushions on the couch. He was exhausted, and he did close his eyes. As he drifted off, he let his fingers travel up and down the laces of the signed baseball as he filled in more of the blanks of Jimmy Trent, the man he imagined was his father.

Ryder woke up to the sound of keys rattling in the door. The room was now dark, but for the glow of the computer screen. Ryder bolted up in a bit of a panic. For a brief moment, the intensity of his nap made it seem like the whole thing might have been a dream, but the lights went on and a nurse waddled in.
    â€œOh! Who are you ?” she asked, startled.
    Ryder blinked. The look on her face told him he wasn’t welcome. Naturally shy, he had no words. “Uhhhh.”
    Mr. Starr whirred around in his chair to face the nurse. “Do you think because I’m entombed in this wreck of flesh and bone that I’m not allowed guests? This is my nephew. His name is Ryder.”
    Ryder sat silently, absorbing yet another lie about who and what he was with an impassive face.
    â€œSay hello,” Mr. Starr barked so abruptly that both the nurse and Ryder said hello at the same time.
    â€œI’m Amy Gillory.” The nurse wore a white uniform that barely contained her stout figure, and her arms seemed too short for the barrel of her squat body. Her hair was bluntly cut and dyed a purple-pinkish color. She had big brown eyes set in a doughy white face, and thick, painted lips.
    Ryder shook her hand.
    â€œHe’s shy.” Mr. Starr started his wheelchair across the room toward the short hallway that led to an oversized bathroom. “Let’s get this over with.”
    Ryder watched them disappear behind the bathroom door and sat silently, listening to the sounds of water being drawn and washcloths being dipped and wrung out. After a while, Amy Gillory came out in a flurry. Ryder craned his neck around and looked through the opening into the kitchen. On the kitchen counter just inside the front door, the nurse had left a premade dinner tray. She stuck that into the microwave and it hummed while Mr. Starr appeared, whirring along in fresh clothes with his thin strands of hair plastered to his misshapen skull. The intensity of his glare suggested that he didn’t like whatever had happened behind the bathroom door, but he said nothing.
    When the chair came to a stop in front of the couch, Ryder shifted in his seat. “Do you need me to do something?”
    â€œCan you fix yourself something to eat?” Mr. Starr whispered so the nurse couldn’t hear him.
    â€œSpaghettiOs.”
    â€œDo you like SpaghettiOs?”
    â€œYes, would you like some?”
    The microwave beeped from the kitchen and the nurse appeared, unfolded a small tray stand with one hand, and expertly set down Mr. Starr’s dinner as she plunked herselfonto the other end of the couch.
    â€œI have this.” Mr. Starr flicked his eyes at what looked to Ryder like a kind of glorified school lunch. “You go have something to eat with the neighbors, and then come back.”
    Ryder scooted off the couch and addressed the nurse. “Nice to meet you.”
    â€œYup.” She didn’t even look his way as she spooned a dollop of applesauce into Mr. Starr’s mouth, letting her own mouth hang open as she did so, just the way Ryder had