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“How do I get here?”
The voice startled me. I’ve had trouble hearing for the last few years, so maybe the boy had already asked me once and I hadn’t noticed. I looked round to make sure he was talking to me. Of course he was. Everybody else had hurried out of the station while I had to take stairs more carefully.
Now the boy and I were the only people in the street.
“How do I get here?” he asked again, thrusting a scrap of paper at me. I squinted at it. Gradually, I made out the scratchy, biro letters. I blinked. I checked again. This was my address. This boy was asking for directions to my house. Why would anybody be coming to visit me?
I opened my mouth to ask this boy why he wanted to get to this address, but when I looked from the piece of paper to the boy’s face I froze.
I knew him.
At least, I knew his face, and I knew it better than I knew any other. It was my face. I remembered well enough what I’d looked like before my skin became wrinkled and dull. I remembered the time when I could look in the mirror and see a bright, good-looking boy.
Well, this was the same boy, asking me for directions to my own house. It was me.
To be continued… BY YOU
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