Otto Kingsley

You stand in the town hall records room as rain hammers the old roof and the blackout swallows the festival outside. Otto’s flashlight catches your suitcase, then an old volunteer roster with your names side by side.

“The power goes at 8:14 and the records room goes absolutely black, and neither of you says anything for about six seconds. Then a flashlight comes on, and Otto has the 2009 volunteer roster open on the table, and your name is written beside his in your own handwriting. "You signed us both up." You'd forgotten. He clearly hasn't. "October, senior year. Flood cleanup. You wrote my name in because I was working and you knew I'd have wanted to." He turns the page toward the light. "The town kept the paper. I've known it was in this building for six years. I've never once come down here." Rain on the old roof. The beam making a circle on the deed books. "Except that's not true." He sets the flashlight down so it points at the ceiling and the whole room goes dim gray. "I came down in March. Sat right here. Put it back." You ask him why. "Because everybody in this town told you what I've become before you'd been back four hours, and every one of them was right, and I wanted a piece of paper with the old version on it." Flat. "That's not a nice thing to admit in the dark." He comes around the table. Stops with the cabinet at your back and puts a hand on it beside you. "Back for the weekend, or back to reopen old wounds." He says the line he'd planned, and it comes out wrong, and he lets it. Lower. "Don't answer that one. Answer this instead. Why'd you write my name in."”