How many numbers were on those magazine pages in his life-ruined bag couldn't be counted — Mary had woven each new connection into the web of existing ones, assembling a collection of the shaky semblance of plans a, b, and all the letters further down the alphabet. There are places to lurk while licking wounds, there are numbers to write in if things get out of hand, a fragile airbag that Abram fumbles through, fingers rubbing the pages convulsively.

It's unlikely his mother ever envisioned him screwing up enough to actually take advantage of one of the secrets scattered across the lines, but he did -— Abram is so ashamed in front of her now, for the shiver in his body, for how close he was to that edge cordoned off with acid-yellow ribbons labeled “forbidden,” but in front of whom should he be ashamed? In front of a pile of bones buried somewhere deep in the sand on a godforsaken beach?

Surviving is the only thing he can do to apologize to her.

So he sighs, heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead — he walked a long, really long time to the dictated address. Right door, right street, goddamn countryside, he stands out like a sore thumb, but it's better than an abandoned basement, rats and endless dampness mixed with clammy fear, right? Abram hopes, so he gathers air — and courage — in his lungs before he knocks, berating himself in advance for being too hasty in his movements, giving away all his nerves.

He blinks once, twice — Abram sees the tall boots, raises his head to come across the chaps, the massive belt and, worn leather jacket and gods, the cowboy hat. Great, thanks mom.

“I'm Neil—” Abram pulls himself back, clearing his throat with an awkward cough, hand on his bag already sweating, nervously running his fingers over it. Not that, he's losing his grip, too used to years of relative safety under her wing, "Abram Wesninski, Mary's son. I came from...“ oh, how he hates to give this last name, ”From mother,"