Lost Boy by Tim Green Page A

seen people feed babies. He wondered why Mr. Starr had to be fed when he could obviously use a computer. Then he realized it was because his elbows wouldn’t bend far enough to allow his hands to reach his face.
    He got out of there and went back to his empty apartment. He heated up some SpaghettiOs in a pot to have with a glass of milk and two slices of bread thick with soft butter. When he cleaned up and returned to Mr. Starr’s, the nurse was gone and he was back at the computer.
    â€œWell, we know you can sleep on the couch without any problems.” Mr. Starr worked the touchpad without looking back. “But I want you to get some sheets so your drool isn’t all over the place. I drool enough for a classroom of boys, but that’s my prerogative. Here . . . look at this.”
    Mr. Starr gave the computer keyboard a final stroke with a crooked finger and tilted his entire upper body to study the screen from a new angle. Something in his tone suggested great importance.
    Ryder snatched his signed baseball up off the couch and clutched it as he crossed the room. “Did you find something?”

“Well, something, I guess. Auburn, New York, is full of Trents, see them?” Mr. Starr angled his head toward the screen.
    Ryder looked at the list on the screen, jittery.
    â€œBut no Jameses or Jimmys to be found,” Mr. Starr mumbled. “I even made some phone calls.”
    Ryder’s heart sank. He was silent for a minute before he spoke. “You can use that thing to call people?”
    â€œIt’s the internet, you can use it to perform robotic surgery on someone in Australia, of course you can use it to call people, not that I call people. The people in my life are . . .” Mr. Starr blew air out his nose.
    â€œWhy don’t you like that lady?” Ryder was thinking of the nurse since she was the only person he assumed Mr. Starr knew.
    â€œAmy Gillory ? My evening zookeeper? What animal really likes its keeper? I’m not talking about its master. Dogs and cats?They can love their master, but no animal likes its keeper. In fact, the animal resents its keeper because in the wild, it would fend for itself and that’s where it instinctively knows it should be.”
    Ryder wanted to change the subject. “What did you do? Before . . . you know.”
    â€œBefore my body turned into a blob of hardened wax? I was a writer. For the New York Post .”
    â€œA sports reporter?”
    Mr. Starr snorted and choked. “Good God, no. I was a crime reporter, which actually requires one to work. You can’t run down a serial killer’s second-grade teacher in a wheelchair. So, they offered me a television column. Can you imagine that? You think people who watch television need someone telling them what they saw? What’s good? What’s bad? Seriously? It’s television. I said I’d rather be on half-pay disability than undertake something so meaningless.”
    â€œDid you ever write a book or anything?” Ryder asked, still trying to find some solid ground.
    â€œI started one, yes. Then my fingers froze into these delightful claws. Recently, they’ve come up with some voice programs that almost work, but now that I actually can write again, I find I have nothing to say. Obviously there’s nothing immediately around me—these four walls and the view out my window—but even in the wide world, the things I read about, I find no inspiration. The world is in a tailspin. Everyone knows that. Everyone writes about it. They don’t need me to add to it. More meaningless drivel . . .”
    Ryder shifted his attention to the screen and pointed. “Isthat how many James Trents there are?”
    â€œYes, over three thousand, and that’s just on Facebook. None connected to Auburn, New York, though.” Mr. Starr clucked his tongue.
    â€œBut what about when I was . . . before I was born.