“Whoa,” Kurt said. “Alone?”
Alan sat on the floor and leaned back against a milk crate full of low-capacity hard drives. “I have to,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking of… ” He was horrified to discover that he was on the verge of tears. It had been three weeks since Davey had vanished into the night, and he’d dreamt of Eugene-Fabio-Greg every night since, terrible dreams, in which he’d dug like a dog to uncover their hands, their arms, their legs, but never their heads. He swallowed hard.
He and Kurt hadn’t spoken of that night since.
“I sometimes wonder if it really happened,” Kurt said.
Alan nodded. “It’s hard to believe. Even for me.”
“I believe it,” Kurt said. “I won’t ever not believe it. I think that’s probably important to you.”
Alan felt a sob well up in his chest and swallowed it down again. “Thanks,” he managed to say.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m going to rent a car and drive up,” he said.
“How long?”