The fog is all around Wyatt. I can’t pull him out now. He has only two options: remain in fog or come to our side. Brady and I are here on this side.
I discovered Brady here with me at dinner the other day—actually before dinner: he asked me about Wyatt and I responded, and he cowed me with his eyes. I jumped, rabbit-like, away from his eyes, feet grinding invisible grain beneath me. I know he sees I’ve apprehended some truth, I saw it in his eyes. At dinner he doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t open to me. His questions are broken and half-responded. He has responses for his own questions. Wyatt, a child, plays along, whirling his ice-cream with a spoon. I, too, am a child, but I’m out of the fog—I think—with Brady. Brady and I know we’re out and know the other’s out. We both vie for influence over Wyatt’s mind. Wyatt, blank, without understanding, believes I am on a journey with him; he thinks Brady is static, found a comfortable place. Brady and I hurtle at a million miles an hour through information and thoughts, we don’t stop. Wyatt’s mind is stuck in a rut, wheels floating round in infinite mud, blind to truth. We have yet to throw out ropes, but we are both scrambling to find the best way to do so. Wyatt thinks he can influence my mind—he hasn’t yet. He’s just made me sad for him. He resents my pity, yet he takes it. He can’t buck this burden I’ve let fall. Only I can remove it. How can I remove it while he remains enshrouded in fog. Step through the door and we’ll be equals.
But Wyatt doesn’t know. He wonders why I don’t take his advice. I already know how the game is played, I see it from the outside. Brady and I do. Brady’s a few meters ahead of me—hurtling, as always—but a few meters makes a world of difference. Brady, I know what you’re up to. Good man, but unclear motives.
Why didn’t Brady reveal himself at dinner? I know he knew I knew. He wouldn’t throw his eyes at mine; he wouldn’t be straightforward. He leaned his head back and moaned of a brain freeze. The great equalizer, I joke. Wyatt laughs, Brady keeps his eyes tightly shut, head folded back onto the booth seat. Uhhh, he moans through grated teeth. I take the liberty of glaring at the bottom of his chin. It’s wiry with grey hair, like mine with black. I look back at Wyatt: his head bobs with childish mirth. Why can’t he see.
