My name is Andrew Erics. I lived, once, in a city called New York. My mother is Terrie Erics. She’s in the phone book. If you know the city, and you read this, find her. Don’t show her this, but tell her I love her, and that I’m trying to come home. It all started when I decided, around the time that I turned twenty-five, that it was time for me to give up taking my backpack in to work. I had an mp3 player, which helped pass the time for a while, but when it broke – it would shut down at the end of every song if I didn’t skip to the next track manually – I gave that up too. Just as people-watching was threatening to get unbearably boring, I found my first incongruity. He was on the subway in the afternoons. By the time the subway reached my stop, I found myself queasy, and when I exited the car my hands were shaking like I was having a nicotine fit. They didn’t, though, not in any way that I could tell. He hadn’t gone anywhere! I lost my job the next week. Instead, I waited.
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