“He was there, head resting back against the back of the chair, snoring quietly. He was too big for the dainty chair, and he looked like a giant. Even more than he usually did. I got up and shook him. “What?” he asked, jumping awake. “I’m up now. Take the bed for a while.” “Thanks.” I watched as he climbed sleepily into my bed, rested his head on my pillow. Tried not to notice the way he pressed his face into my pillow, the same way I had so often with the pillow on his bed after he’d died. With...in moments, he was asleep again. I looked toward the chair. Wuthering Heights was sitting on the little table beside it. I sat down in the chair and picked up the book. I leafed through it, noticed a piece of yellow paper from the legal pad I kept on the table sticking out of it. I opened it to the page he’d marked, which was the same page I’d been thinking about the night before, the one on which I’d written his name in the margins. I looked at the paper. I’d thought it was a bookmark.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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