There’s no answer.
You should have an idea!
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yeah—I mean, it’s probably not what I mean.”
“Then what is it?”
“Well, I guess it’s—well, let’s just say.”
There was a pause, during which I thought that perhaps I had misheard my neighbor. But it was probably time for him to talk. I took my seat on the sofa, and there I waited—and waited, and waited. It was nearly 2:30. He sat down again; then again two more times. Then finally, at 6:08 p.m., he walked briskly up to me, with his nose in his sleeve, his face flushed, and his mouth agape, with a very queer expression on his face and in his expression.
He took two steps toward me, and stood staring at me blankly. He stood there for some seconds, in the very position of an audience to whom a poet has just given a stupendously bad stanza, and whose imagination is going wild with the suggestion of tragedy, and then, turning his head up to me, he went away back into a corner of the room.
After a pause, I looked up.
“Are you going to talk, or not?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. I looked at the clock; it was already half past 7. A minute before 8:00, in the shade of the great pine tree where we met on the road, it was still pitch dark.
“You know,” I said, “I don’t care that you don’t talk; I mean what the shit is the matter with you, anyway?”
He got up abruptly, and came back with a large, very heavy backpack. I was still standing at the door when he left, with his pack still in one hand.
THERE WAS A PLAN TO GO OUT AND LOOK FOR MORE HOMES BEFORE WE MET HERE FOR THE LAST TIME. THAT SAME DAY, A BRITISH WOMAN AND TWO MEN WENT OUT TOWARDS THE FOREST IN THE LIGHT TREE THAT RUNS DOWN THE ROAD FROM US DOWN THE SHADOWS. THESE ARE THE MANY WHO FOUND OUR CITIZEN WHO WAS DRAFTED OUT OF PRISON FOR THE FIRST time AFTER THEY CAMPED