Free The Year of the Storm by John Mantooth

just knows. Like he didn’t put them there, so he’s not responsible, right? He just knows and he wants to tell you so you can help them.”
    I nodded. It seemed very unlikely, but I tried to ignore that and focus on the idea anyway. I think I had dismissed it simply because it held too much hope, and I’d learned that hope could sometimes be a dangerous thing.
    The sunlight streamed in through the windows behind the TV now, causing me to shield my eyes and yawn. “I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours. When I wake up, I’m going to the cabin.” I left the statement hanging there. I wanted him to volunteer to go with me, but I wasn’t going to ask. He’d already done a lot for me, and I would understand if he didn’t want to do any more.
    â€œYou know I’ll go with you,” Cliff said.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. That guy could be a nut.”
    Cliff walked over to his bed and fell on top of it heavily. “Could be? He
is
a nut. That’s why you’re not going alone.”
    That made me smile a little. Then I stretched out in the recliner and fell asleep.
    â€”
    O ne of the great heartaches I have known in my life is losing touch with Cliff Banks. I last saw him when I was twenty-seven in New York City. We’d both gone to colleges up north. Mine was the University of Massachusetts. His was Harvard. We’d had plans of meeting once a week in downtown Boston for a beer. I even remember calling him once, it must have been the first weekend I was on campus, to set up a time to get together.
    â€œI’m already swamped,” he said. “Physics is going to kill me.”
    â€œNo problem. We’ll do it another weekend.”
    â€œSounds good, Dan. I’ll call you.”
    I was about to hang up when he said, “Wait.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat happened when we were fourteen. That summer. Do you remember?”
    â€œOf course I remember. It was—”
    â€œIt scares me.”
    â€œSometimes it scares me too.”
    â€œThe things you said . . .”
    â€œIt really happened.” I paused. “I think.”
    â€œYeah, well, you always seemed like a reasonable kid, which is why it surprised me when you let that old man—”
    â€œDon’t,” I said. “Just don’t.”
    â€œSure, Danny. I understand.”
    â€œNo, you don’t.” It was a mean thing to say. And worse, I wondered if it was a hypocritical statement because the truth was, I didn’t understand either. Not really. Not enough.
    â€œHere’s the thing, Danny. With physics . . .” He paused. “I’ve learned a lot about the world, the nature of things. You know, I took that class last summer. It doesn’t compute. What happened, or what you say happened—”
    â€œYou heard the story too. Tell me he was lying.”
    â€œHe may not have been lying. Insane people tell the truth, Dan.”
    I said nothing. It was a place I didn’t want to go.
    â€œBesides, it’s all so vague now. Even if I believed every word he said, I didn’t experience it like you did. I didn’t . . .” I could hear his desire to say the word and not say it at the same time. I could hear it in the silence over the phone line.
    So I said it for him. “Slip. You didn’t slip. Whether you believe it or not, I did.”
    â€œListen,” he said. “This is tough for me. It was always tough for me. There’s a term, maybe you’ve heard of it: willful amnesia. I’m starting to think it might not be a bad idea.”
    Willful amnesia.
How many times had I repeated that phrase inside my head over the years?
    â€œI’ll call you,” he said, and it was clear that he couldn’t bear to talk about this any longer. “We’ll get together this weekend. I’ll call.”
    He never did.
    â€”
    W hen I ran into him in New York, it