No point to a lot of things, like the way he wakes up feeling like he's about to say a word, or a name, or something that flits right out of his head and tries to remember what he'd been dreaming about, even though the result is always the same. There's no point. And maybe if he left well enough alone, he might live a little longer.

Me, he says. Who's there, repeats the kid.

"I know this one," says the skeleton, leaning against the door, shutting his eye sockets, "Ok... 'Wa'"

Something here feels a little like nostalgia, but hell if he can put a phalanx on what, how or why.