Writings / Fiction: John Tavares

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“No. You don’t understand. When the fire marshal said no evidence, he meant no sign of him, no proof of his existence. It’s as if he didn’t exist, as if it was a dream. The investigators and forensic lab found no DNA they could trace back to Hakan. Not a burnt hair, a bone fragment, a tooth, or a razed piece of clothing.”

“That sounds like Hakan.”

“To totally disappear, without a trace?”

“I suppose. He’s only a kid, but he’s the ultimate survivor. That boy is capable of anything. Enola, I suspect he burned down your garage and shed. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t have much evidence.”

“I suspected the same thing,” Enola said. “But I was quietly delighted because the insurance company paid for a new garage with room for both our cars. Besides, my husband wanted to tear down and build a cottage where he could study.”

Carlos watched the nurse change the intravenous bags that dripped medication and antibiotics into his vein. “Still, I need to find out what happened.”

“You’re lying in a hospital room, recovering from first degree and second degree burns and healing from skin grafts. You shouldn’t worry. You’re alive.”

“I need to know what happened.”

“If so, you’re probably best off playing detective in bed.”

“I’m grateful I’m alive. They say I’ll survive, and I feel better despite the scarring and weakness.”

“At least you can say you survived. While we’re on the subject: There’s another letter here for you.”

“Another letter? I lie in the hospital bed for three months, near dead in the hospital, nobody knows me or recognizes me in my own hometown, or even recognizes me, and now I’m getting mail everyday.”

“It a dispute resolution memo from the insurance company.”

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