Chapter 3 - The Photograph
Roman came back the next evening.
Then the next.
Noah began waiting for him.
Their routine became strangely ordinary.
Roman brought books.
Noah complained about the books.
Roman brought chess.
Noah cheated.
Roman pretended not to notice.
Sometimes Roman conducted business from the hospital corridor while Noah slept.
Men arrived terrified and left even more terrified.
But whenever Noah called his name, Roman ended the conversation immediately.
On the sixth night, Noah's condition worsened.
His oxygen saturation dropped.
Monitors screamed.
Nurses rushed inside.
Roman was forced into the hallway.
He stood behind the glass with both hands clenched.
I joined him after Noah stabilized.
“He's okay.”
Roman didn't move.
“Roman.”
That was the first time I'd used his first name.
“He's stable.”
His shoulders finally lowered.
Then I noticed blood on his palm.
His fingernails had cut into his skin.
“You care about him.”
Roman laughed bitterly.
“That's dangerous.”
“For whom?”
“Everyone.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Noah called from inside.
“Roman?”
Roman entered immediately.
Noah looked exhausted.
“Can you get my box?”
“What box?”
“Under my clothes.”
Roman found a blue shoebox inside the hospital cabinet.
Noah opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Birthday cards.
His mother's necklace.
A dried flower.
Then Noah pulled out an old photograph.
“My mom.”
Roman took it.
His face lost all color.
Anna Reed stood beside a much younger woman outside a hospital.
The woman held a newborn wrapped in a green blanket.
Roman stared at that baby.
Then he turned the photograph over.
Something had been written there.
For Matteo. So you always know somebody wanted you. — Anna
Roman sat down.
I had never seen a powerful man collapse without actually falling.
But that was exactly what happened.
Noah tilted his head.
“Who's Matteo?”
Roman didn't answer.
I looked at him.
“Who is Matteo?”
Roman slowly reached beneath his shirt collar.
A silver chain appeared.
Something hung from it.
Not a cross.
Not a medal.
A tiny plastic hospital identification tag.
Faded.
Cracked.
Twenty-four years old.
One word remained readable.
May you like
MATTEO.
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