Henry Franks Read Online Free Page A

back up to his room and then walked downstairs. By the time he reached the kitchen, the remaining pile of burgers on the counter was gone. On the dining room table there were only enough for their dinner. His father was already eating.
    As Henry looked at him, for just a moment, he thought he was staring at a stranger.
    After dinner, his father cleaned the table and then left the room. The deadbolt clicking into place on his father’s door was loud in the silence. Henry sat at the empty table, the question of his mother’s name still unspoken and barely more than a memory.
    Wind brushed leaves against the windows in the humid summer evening as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. In the kitchen, Henry searched for the rest of the food his father had brought home, but there was only one bag in the garbage can and no evidence remained that there had been any other hamburgers in the house. Somewhere, a dog barked. Then, with a crash of a branch against the side of the house, the wind hissed right outside the window.
    Henry pushed the mini-blinds to the side and peered out into the backyard. A light from Justine’s house sent hazy shadows across the summer-scorched grass. Barely visible from where he was standing, there was a bag of fast food on the back stoop.
    Henry dropped the blinds, staring at nothing while the image of that bag flashed across his vision every time he blinked. He took a deep breath before walking to the back door and flipping the light switch for the backyard.
    The single halogen flooded the area with light. A weak breeze stirred as Henry opened the door. He picked the fast food bag up. Aside from crumpled wrappers, it was empty. He dropped it to the ground and took another look around the yard.
    Old oak trees, gnarled roots poking out of the ground, were draped with Spanish moss. An ancient iron fence, more rusted than not, in some places ran right into the trees in its circuit of the yard. A gate swung open on broken hinges. Even at night, the heat brought beads of sweat out on his skin, catching in the scars.
    A branch snapped in two as it clawed against the house and he hurried inside, locking the door behind him. He took another deep breath, counting to ten as he leaned against the wall, staring out between the miniblinds as the Spanish moss hung motionless in the still night air.
    Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)
    â€œI’m alive,” he said. “I breathe.”
    â€œAnd the dream?” Dr. Saville asked.
    â€œI’m living the wrong life.” He sat up, hair falling into his face, and he tensed his fingers, stretching them as far as they would go. Then, with a shrug, he slumped back down, melting into the cushion. “Or something like that. It’s me but it’s not me. Then I wake up.”
    â€œThis is part of the process, Henry.”
    â€œWaking up is good.”
    â€œThen what?”
    He looked at her, then closed his eyes. “Nothing. No dreams during the day. You need memories for that, don’t you?”
    â€œWhat do you do during the day?”
    â€œI’m not exactly the beach type,” he said. “Sat out back last week where no one could see. Only part of me tanned.”
    â€œHang out with friends? Justine?”
    He looked toward the window, where the palm tree brushed along the glass, and then shrugged. “She always says hi, I guess.”
    â€œDo you talk to her when she talks to you?” Dr. Saville asked.
    â€œShe has her own friends.” He shook his head. “I have … ”
    â€œYou have?” she asked, when he didn’t continue.
    â€œWas going to say my father, but he’s usually MIA, so it’s just me.”
    â€œDo you think you have any friends?”
    â€œI have pictures of friends in the scrapbook he put together. And nightmares. But I don’t recognize anyone from the