In the shade, behind a white trailer with rickety peeling walls, you hear clacking noises. Mechanical, whirring, rickety noises. Closer inspection reveals a young boy doubled over some kind of machine, fingers flying.
“Look what I found!” Alex says. As if he’s found a chest rattling with gold pieces of eight. As if he’s found something worth of any value at all instead of a typewriter with the W, X, A, and C letters missing, barely yielding a functioning ink ribbon. “What should we write?” He looks at you, expectantly, eagerly, like the next thing to come out of your mouth will be Salinger’s Catcher, or something of equal literary value. “We could write a poem, take turns with lines. Or a letter to someone. Or just your name over and over. Wait, what is it again?” He looks guilty, as if he can’t believe he’s forgotten.
