Free Freewill by Chris Lynch

wrong sound, which would catch your attention and alter your behavior and history. Making them responsible.
    So they float, as the entire world at this moment appears to float. You are led along by Angela, by the hand, and as unnatural as it seems, it is not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
    Bloop. Nothing but the odd air-bubble noise at your back as you wade out into the world that is three days older than the last time you saw it.
    Hasn’t changed much, has it? Has it?
    â€œSo what am I, like an experiment, a curiosity, a vigil?” you ask as the two of you walk along toward the actual water. Water that even people who aren’t crazy can see.
    Are you ever walking along toward anything but water?
    She looks at you blankly. You are fairly resistant to learning, are you not? Could you not have guessed by now that this is not the way to talk to this person?
    â€œSo, what are you up for today? Some wild grocery shopping maybe?”
    â€œNot up for anything. I’m out here because you brought me out.”
    â€œMakes me kind of responsible for whatever you do now, huh?”
    There’s a thought. You could live with that thought probably. Somebody finally being responsible for your behavior. It’s the answer, isn’t it, to the question you have been aching to ask, if you had the nerve.
    Who’s responsible?
    â€œSure,” you say. “You want the job?”
    â€œI do not, thank you very much.”
    â€œThen why did you—”
    â€œYou know, a sense of humor wouldn’t do you any harm. From what I can tell, you are completely without one. Are you aware of that?”
    Well?
    â€œNo. Actually, no, I am not aware of that.”
    This is where the conversation pauses because, after all, where is it supposed to go from there? You are too old, Will, to develop a character trait as large as a sense of humor now, don’t you think? Where would you get one? How would you go about cultivating it? She is right, it is missing, and having it would be a blessing. But you were not wired that way. You were not blessed. And somebody owes you an apology for that.
    But you must press on without. Perhaps what you do not have is made up by those around you who do?
    â€œKnock knock,” you say.
    â€œOh my god,” she says.
    Please don’t.
    â€œKnock knock,” you say.
    â€œI am not answering that door,” she says.
    â€œKnock knock,” you say.
    â€œWho’s there?” she says as ponderously as if she had a bowling ball riveted to her chin.
    â€œYou,” you say.
    â€œOh my god, I can’t believe you want me to say yoo-hoo. It’s even worse than I thought,” she says.
    Another large merciful silence ensues and when you emerge you are standing in front of the spot on the bridge which you have been watching on the television. Many many flowers lie there, browning in the May sun, crippled Mylar balloons struggle to beat the inevitable pull of the pavement, melted-down stump candles cling to the ground. There are a couple fresher bunches of blooms still hanging to bits of dirt from somebody’s front yard, but for the most part, this service is over. Your sculpture, however, remains, stately and unchanged. First to arrive at the party, last to leave.
    â€œWhatever happened to the first one of these?” Angela asks. “The one from, you know, the other spot?”
    You haven’t even considered that, have you? Would your work simply return to mother earth when it no longer served a purpose, like the carnations and bluebells?
    â€œI don’t know,” you say.
    You stare. She stares. You have always been a gifted starer. Great concentration. Unaffected by the goings-on about you.
    â€œYou are gifted,” Angela says. She goes up to the sculpture, traces lines, shapes, curls, and cuts with her finger.
    â€œNo, I’m not actually.”
    â€œThis isn’t ordinary work. I’ve never seen anything like