Imagine a fellow in manacles: hungry, thirsty, flea-bitten, tormented by his mind in hideous ways. And you (unmanacled, free, comfortable, sane) walk past.
You cannot free him.
But you might comfort him.
I felt a new and powerful truth being beamed directly into me, by a vast, beneficent God, in the form of this unyielding directive:
Comfort.
Comfort, for all else is futility.
And I did so: I comforted Bowman as best I could.
I was not very good at comforting back then.
But am extremely good at it now.
Having comforted three hundred and forty-three charges.
To date.
Including my present charge.
Speaking of which.
Good God, what was I doing?
What was I doinghere,on this filthy couch, so far from where I was needed?
My charge was going through a terrible crisis, the worst of his life. Yes, he was rude, abrupt, condescending, insulting.
But a person could hardly be expected to be his best self under such trying conditions.
I exploded up, Clyda and William seemingly oblivious to my departure.
I got hit and killed justthere,Clyda called out to no one in particular.
It was “game day,” William mumbled. Clyda here was making a “chip run.” She got distracted, and—
It was a eclipse, Clyda said sadly. I had one of those “viewer thingies.”
I raced back toward the home of my charge, along the avenue, above the woods, regretting the time I’d wasted.
God forbid he’d died in my absence.
Here was his neighborhood, a sprawl of mansions in yards big as parks.
Here was his home, the largest one of all.
—
I burst in through the bedroom wall, glided down into the orb of his thoughts.
Where’d you go? he said.
Away, I said. To collect myself.
Two fingers on his exposed hand were inscribing an inch-long, stroking arc across the comforter.
