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Brooks Oosterhout [extra Quality] - |
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He walked another three days. The Polaroid stayed in his shirt pocket. The baseball stayed in his hand, rolling his fingers over the seams like a rosary.
He stared at it for a week. Then he quit the diner, packed a bag, and started walking south. brooks oosterhout
The old man smiled. “There you are.” He walked another three days
On the tenth day, he reached Portland. The address from the postmark was an old minor league stadium, half-abandoned, its outfield grass overgrown. A chain-link gate hung open. He walked in. He stared at it for a week
He didn’t take a car. He walked—through the Skagit Valley tulip fields, past the outlet malls of Marysville, across the floating bridge into Seattle. He slept in bus shelters and behind churches. People offered him rides. He always said no. He told himself he was walking toward something, but really, he was walking away from the person who had stopped throwing.
