“Except that’s not how it happened.”
Those words, like a mantra, running in my mind while I listen, or while I read a family member’s recollections.
Not how it happened. How what happened?a fictional someone wants to know. The boy’s death, a medical doctor answers – the how and the why of it, not as the facts suggest.
The characters, and the proto-draft, much in the background of things this week. But for some reason, a physical representation of one the characters lurks, just on the edge of my field of vision, to the right. Male. Narrow face, pale complexion. Slim, wiry. Smoker? Afraid so.
He’s in profile – the left one. Wearing a blue cotton worker’s jacket, except he’s a history teacher, so it must have belonged to someone else and he must be wearing it away from school.
Fiction. Lurking. Waiting its turn.