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e of them； a man with large； gentle hands； had been brave enough to edge past Bobby's dangling body and pry Trevor from his niche between the toilet and the sink。 The next thing he remembered was waking up in a blank white room； smelling medicine and vomit； then screaming at the sight of a tube that snaked out of a bag hanging by the bed and ran straight into the crook of his arm。 The flesh where it went in was puffy； red； sore。
Trevor had thought the thing was alive； burrowing into him as he slept。 He would never really trust sleep again。 You closed your eyes and went somewhere else for a few hours； and while you were gone； anything could happen … anything at all。 The whole world could be ripped out from under you。
The nurse said Trevor had not been able to hear people trying to talk to him； and could not eat or drink。 The tube had pumped ground…up food into his arm to keep him from starving to death； or so he understood it。 He was embarrassed to find himself wearing a diaper。 Even Didi was too old for diapers。 Then he remembered that Didi wasn't anything anymore but a memory of a smashed shape on a stained mattress。 His family had been dead five days； had been buried while Trevor floated in that hazy twilight world。
The doctors at the hospital in Raleigh called it catatonia。 Trevor knew it was Birdland。 Not just the place where no one else could touch you； but the place you went when the real world scared you away。
After it became apparent that no relative or friend of the family was going to claim him； and a series of cognitive tests proved he was functional （if withdrawn）； the court declared Trevor McGee a ward of the state。 He was placed in the North Carolina Boys' Home on the outskirts of Charlotte； an orphanage and school whose operating budget had been shaved to the bone the previous year。 There was no foster family program； no special training for the gifted； no therapy for the disturbed。 There was only an enormous drafty pillared school building and four outlying dorms all built of smooth gray stone that held a chill even in the heart of summer。 There were only three hundred boys aged five to eighteen； all kept crew…cut and conservatively dressed； each with his own personal hell and none of them much inclined to help ease the weight of anyone else's。
The place seemed to have no color； no texture。 Trevor's thirteen years there were a collage of blurred edges； featureless gray expanses； empty city streets sectioned into little diamonds by the chain…link fence that surrounded the Home and its grounds。 His room was a cold square box； but safe because he could draw there without anyone looking over his shoulder。
Most of the other boys used sports as their escape； built their dreams around athletic scholarships to State or UNC。 Trevor was painfully clumsy； except for his right hand； his body felt wrong to him； like something he wasn't entitled to and shouldn't have。 He dreaded the afternoons he was forced out to the playing fields with his gym class； hot dusty tedium broken only by occasional panic when someone screamed at him to run or swing or catch a hurtling ball that looked like a bomb falling at a thousand miles per hour out of a dizzying clear blue sky。
His life at the Boys' Home had been neither good nor terrible。 He never tried to make friends； and mostly he was ignored。 On the rare occasions that a group of predators chose him as their next target； Trevor returned their taunts until he goaded them into attacking him。 They always attacked him eventually。 Then he would hurt as many of them as badly as he could。 He learned to land a hard punch with his left fist； to kick and claw and bite； anything that did not risk his drawing hand。 He usually got the worst of it； but that particular group would leave him alone afterward； and Trevor would mind his own business until the next group came along。 From things he read； he suspected it was a lot like prison。
The state had cut him loose at eighteen with an option to attend vocational school。 Instead； Trevor headed for the Greyhound station and bought a ticket for as far as the hundred dollars in his pocket would take him。
He had traveled haphazardly in those years； zigzagging between cities and coasts； picking up work here and there； occasionally selling a sketch or a ic strip for the price of a bus ticket； often more。 Sometimes he met people that under other circumstances he thought he might have called friends。 At any rate； people in the real world were more interesting than any he had met in the Home。 But as soon as he left a place； these acquaintances were gone as if erased from the world。
He never let anyone touch him。 Mostly he preferred to be alone。 If he was ever unable to draw； Trevor thought he would probably die。 It was a possibility he always kept tucked away in a corner of his mind； the fort of the razor or the rope； the security of poison on the shelf waiting to be swallowed。 But he wouldn't take anyone with him when he went。
He had not cut his hair for seven years。 He had never had a permanent address。 He seldom visited a town or a city more than once。 There were only a few places he avoided。 Austin。 New Orleans。 And North Carolina； until now。
His twenty…fifth birthday had recently e and gone； celebrated only by the crossing of state lines； a thing that always exhilarated him a little no matter how often he did it。 Trevor often came close to forgetting his own birthday。 All it had meant in the Boys' Home was an ugly new shirt and a cupcake with a single candle on it； reminders of everything he didn't have。
And besides； his birthday was overshadowed by the more important anniversary just after it。 The anniversary that fell tomorrow。
Twenty years since it happened； and every year strung heavy as a millstone round his heart。 Four…fifths of his life spent wondering why he wasn't dead。 It was too long。
Recently he had started having a dream of the house on Violin Road。 All through his childhood Trevor had dreamed of that last morning； that bloody morning that seemed to drip through his memory like molasses； dark and slow。 That was a familiar nightmare； infrequent now。 But this new dream was different； and had been ing several times a week。
He would find himself sitting in the little back bedroom Bobby had used as a studio； staring at a blank sheet of paper on the drawing board。 Trevor usually drew ics in his sketchbook； but Bobby had used looseleaf paper for Birdland。 Only there was no Birdland on this sheet of paper。 There was nothing on it； and he could think of nothing to put on it。 It stared him in the eye and laughed at him； and Trevor could almost hear its dry sardonic whisper： The abyss stares back into you？ Ha！ Nothing to see but a liver pickled in whiskey and the ashes of a million burnt…out dreams。
Awake； Trevor couldn't imagine not being able to draw。 He could always make his hand move。 An empty page had always been a challenge； a space for him to fill。 Awake； it still was。 But in this dream； the blank sheet of paper was a mockery。
And he didn't drink whiskey； or any other kind of alcohol。 He had never taken a drink in his life。
Trevor found that this dream bothe