In that formless place, he found himself intensely grateful for Ronan and Adam waiting outside for him, for Blue and her family, for Noah and for Malory. He was so grateful to have found all of them, finally.
“and … this is supposed to be Greek. Isn’t that funny that it’s blank?"
Derisively, Ronan said, “No. The ancient Greeks didn’t have a word for blue.”
Everyone at the table looked at him.
“What the hell, Ronan?” said Adam.
He had memorized the shape of Adam’s hands in particular: the way his thumb jutted awkwardly, boyishly; the roads of the prominent veins; the large knuckles that punctuated his long fingers. In dreams Ronan put them to his mouth.
“I thought I was hallucinating,” Adam said, next to the lockers, an announcement droning on over the hall speakers. “Ronan Lynch in the halls of Aglionby.”
No one marked April 25 on their calendar. In fact, most of the living were unaware that St. Mark even had a day named in his honor.
But the dead remembered.
Noah played the drums on the back of Ronan’s headrest. Adam, for his part, was not wild, but he did his best not to appear 𝘶𝘯wild, so as not to ruin it for the others.
In a low, unfamiliar voice, he said, “I 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 them.” And a little bit later, “The bruises he’d come to school with. Who has he ever had to love him? Ever?”