Page 537 - A Little Life: A Novel

That night Dr. Traylor let him out again, and again it was the kitchen, and
the meal, and the two of them eating in silence. “I feel better now,” he
ventured, and then, when Dr. Traylor didn’t say anything, “if you want to do

something.” He was realistic enough to know that he wasn’t going to be
allowed to leave without repaying Dr. Traylor in some way; he was hopeful
enough to think that he might be allowed to leave at all.
But Dr. Traylor shook his head. “You may feel better, but you’re still
diseased,” he said. “The antibiotics take ten days to eliminate the infection.”
He took a fish bone, so fine it was transluscent, out of his mouth, placed it
on the edge of his plate. “Don’t tell me this is the first venereal disease

you’ve ever had,” he said, looking up at him, and he flushed again.
That night he thought about what to do. He was almost strong enough to
run, he thought. At the next dinner, he would follow Dr. Traylor, and then
when his back was turned, he would run to the door and outside and look
for help. There were some problems with this plan—he still didn’t have his
clothes; he didn’t have any shoes—but he knew that there was something

wrong with this house, that there was something wrong with Dr. Traylor,
that he had to get out.
He tried to conserve his energy the next day. He was too twitchy to read,
and he had to keep himself from pacing the floor. He saved that day’s
sandwich and stuffed it into the pocket of the borrowed sweatpants so he
would have something to eat if he had to hide for a long period. In the other
pocket he shoved the plastic bag that lined the trash can in the bathroom—

he thought he could tear it in half and make shoes for himself once he was
safely out of Dr. Traylor’s reach. And then he waited.
But that night he wasn’t let out of the room at all. From his perch near the
flap, he could see the living room lights turning on, he could smell food
cooking. “Dr. Traylor?” he called. “Hello?” But there was silence except for
the sound of meat frying in a pan, the evening’s news on the television. “Dr.

Traylor!” he called. “Please, please!” But nothing happened, and after
calling and calling, he was spent, and slumped back down the stairs.
That night he had a dream that on the upper floor of the house was a
series of other bedrooms, all with low beds and round tufted rugs beneath
them, and that each bed held a boy: some of the boys were older, because
they had been in the house for a long time, and some were younger. None of
them knew that the others existed; none of them could hear one another. He

realized that he didn’t know the physical dimensions of the house, and in