Quarantine by James Phelan Page B

last night was postponed. There had to be more to say, didn’t there? There had to be so much to work through . . .
    I dressed quietly, and headed out. In the dining room, a few of the people were up, eating cereal. The gas burners and bottles seemed to be rationed to a hot lunch and dinner every day, and they heated water for bathing only at night. A gas heater took the edge off the room’s chill but my breath still fogged in front of me. The few people awake seemed quiet and solemn, the events of last night fresh. Perhaps they’d not slept. None looked me in the eye as I took a bottle of water and a banana. The fruit was turning brown but would still be good.
    There was the faintest glow of sunrise on the outside terrace and a rolling mist close to the ground at street level, but it seemed as if the Hudson’s flow was the more powerful force. The pier was nearly completely covered by a blanket of fresh snow, a long slab of brilliant white jutting out into the Hudson, a lonely island of green plastic turf up against the building.
    Daniel was sitting in a chair, rugged up against the cold, his eyes dark and swollen in a bandaged face, as if he were an Egyptian mummy. Bob was beside him. Two guys sitting as if they were watching the river flow by and not much to care about, if you didn’t know better.
    As I neared I could tell they were talking about something serious. Bob’s face was tight, like he was holding back. Anger, no doubt.
    â€œSorry,” I said, as both faced me. I shouldn’t be here. “Just getting some air.”
    â€œIt’s cool,” Bob said.
    â€œI’ll come back.”
    â€œSit with us.” Daniel motioned to a plastic chair near theirs. His voice was slightly slurred, because of his swollen lips.
    â€œThanks,” I said, dragging the chair around to face the river. In that moment I didn’t know whether to call him Father, or Daniel, or what. “I think the worst of the storm’s passed.”
    â€œMaybe,” Bob replied. He poured me a steaming coffee from a thermos. It had milk and a little sugar. “You rest well?”
    â€œYeah, very well,” I said.
    Daniel’s eyes remained friendly. Bob’s features were scary-looking in this cold dim light, like someone who’d seen it all and then some. I got the sense that this was maybe a second chance for him, some kind of fate bringing him and Daniel together. Maybe there was a guard above . . .
    â€œI think I’ll head back to the zoo today,” I said, looking out at the river. The men were silent.
    â€œYou’re welcome to stay with us as long as you want,” Daniel said, his smiling face turning from me back to the river. “Not that it’s my right to offer—I just want you to know that you’d be welcomed into the group. It’s your choice.”
    â€œThanks,” I replied. I watched my cup of coffee steam and swirl. “Are you okay, Daniel?”
    â€œI’m fine,” he replied. “Don’t worry about me.”
    We sat in silence.
    â€œWhat is it?” Bob asked me. Looking more closely, I could see he looked pained, maybe close to tears, like he felt it all so raw. There was something about his eyes, not their color or their size or shape, just something about them that made me feel like they were reading deep into me. Had he killed someone? Did he recognize himself in me? Did he see me more honestly than I saw myself?
    â€œTalk to us,” Daniel said. “We’ll listen.”
    I nodded. But I didn’t know how to say it, how to admit it, a confession. “Just, I’ve—last night, it reminded me of things I’ve done—”
    Bob said: “We’ve all done things.”
    â€œThat’s not what I mean.”
    â€œWe know what you mean,” Bob said. And the way he said it, he knew exactly.
    I couldn’t articulate it yet. Instead, I cried. Big, heaving, silent sobs. Bob