—He’d been working at the school for more than thirty years. No previous incidents. Nothing in his file.

—Nothing? That’s unusual, too. More than thirty years at one job. At one school.

—Lived out in an old place. I think it was originally his parents’ farmhouse. They both died a long time ago, so I’m told. Everyone I talk to says he was quite gentle. He just didn’t seem to know how to talk to people. Couldn’t relate to them. Or didn’t try. I don’t think he was interested in socializing. He took lots of his breaks out in his truck. He’d just go sit in his pickup at the back of the school. That was his break.

—And what was it about his hearing?

—He had cochlear implants. His hearing had become pretty bad. He had allergies to certain foods, milk and dairy. He had a delicate constitution. He didn’t like to go down to the school’s boiler room in the basement. He’d always ask someone else to go if there was work to be done down there.

—Strange.

—And all those notebooks and diaries and books. Always his nose in a book. I remember seeing him in one of the science labs, after school had ended, and he was standing there, looking at nothing. I watched him for a bit and then went into the classroom. He didn’t notice me. He wasn’t cleaning as he should have been. He had no reason to be in there, so I very gently asked what he was doing. There was a moment before he replied, and then he turned, calmly put a finger to his mouth, and “shhh-ed” me. I couldn’t believe it.

—Very strange.

—And before I could say anything else, he said, “I don’t even want to hear the clock.” Then he just walked by me and left. I’d forgotten about it until all this happened.

—If he was so smart, you wonder, why was he pushing a mop for so long? Why didn’t he do something else?

—You have to interact with coworkers in most jobs. You can’t just sit in your truck.

—Still, a school custodian? That’s what I don’t understand. If he wanted to be alone, why did he work at a job where he was surrounded by people? Wouldn’t that be a kind of self-torture?

—Yeah, come to think of it, I guess it probably would.

On my hands and knees, crawling along what I think is the music room. Blood drips from my nose onto the floor. I’m not in the room. I’m in a narrow hall on the outside. There are windows into the room. My head is thumping, on fire. There are many red chairs and black music stands. There is no order.

I can’t get Jake’s parents out of my mind. How his mom hugged me. She didn’t want to let me go. She looked so poorly by the end. She was worried, scared. Not for herself. For us. Maybe she knew. I think she always knew.

I’m thinking a million thoughts. I’m feeling disoriented, confused. He asked me what I thought about them. Now I know what I think. It’s not that they weren’t happy but that they were stuck. Stuck together, stuck out there. There was an underlying resentfulness from each for the other. With me being there, it was best-behavior time. But they couldn’t fully hide the truth. Something had upset them.

I’m thinking of childhood. Memories. I can’t stop myself. These moments of childhood I haven’t thought about in years or ever. I can’t focus. I can’t keep people straight. I’m thinking about everyone.

“We’re just talking,” Jake said.

“We’re communicating,” I replied. “We’re thinking.”

When I was resting and scratched the back of my head with my hand, I felt a bald spot the size of a quarter. I’ve pulled out more hair. Hair isn’t alive. All those visible cells have already died. It’s dead, lifeless, when we touch and cut and style it. We see it, touch it, clean it, care for it, but it’s dead. My hands still have red on them.

Now it’s my heart. I’m angry with it. The constant beating. We’re wired to be unaware of it, so why am I aware of it now? Why is the beating making me angry? Because I don’t have a choice. When you become aware of your heart, you want it to stop beating. You need a break from the constant rhythm, a rest. We all need a rest.

The most important things are perpetually overlooked. Until something like this. Then they are impossible to ignore. What does that say?

We’re mad at these limits and needs. Human limits and fragility. You can’t be only alone. Everything’s both ethereal and clunky. So much to depend on, and so much to fear. So many requirements.

What’s a day? A night? There’s grace in doing the right thing, in making a human decision. We always have the choice. Every day. We all do. For as long as we live, we always have the choice. Everyone we meet in our life has the same choice to consider, over and over. We can try to ignore it, but there’s only one question for us all.

We think the end of this hall leads back to one of the large halls with all those lockers. We’ve been everywhere. There’s nowhere else to go. It’s the same old school. The same one as always.

We can’t go back upstairs again. We can’t. We tried. We really tried. We did our best. How long can we suffer?

We sit here. Here. We’ve been here, sitting.

Of course we’re uncomfortable. We have to be. I knew it. I know it. I said it myself:

I’m going to say something that will upset you now: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart.

You shouldn’t bite your nails.

I know I shouldn’t. I know that. We’re sorry.

We remember now. The painting. It’s still in our pocket. The painting Jake’s mom gave us. The portrait of Jake that was meant to be a surprise. We’ll hang it on the wall with the other pictures. We take it out of our pocket, slowly unfold it. We don’t want to look, but have to. It took a long time to paint it, hours, days, years, minutes, seconds. The face is there looking at us. All of us are in there. Distorted. Blurry. Fragmented. Explicit and unmistakable. Paint on my hands.

The face is definitely mine. The man. It’s recognizable in the way all self-portraits are. It’s me. Jake.

Are you good? Are you?

There’s grace in doing the right thing, in making a choice. Isn’t there?

DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY. TICKETS ARE $10.