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The radio had been turned off when he’d left the apartment
that morning, Ira is sure of it. But the music filtering through
the door is definitely coming from inside his apartment, which
means either a burglar had broken in, he was going crazy and
had left the radio on, or Freddie’s mother was somehow here
from Cleveland and had let herself into the apartment with the
spare key, which is—not under the mat where it was supposed to
be.
Well, then.
Ira tests the doorknob—unlocked—and cautiously opens
the door, stepping inside. He doesn’t know exactly what to
expect, but it certainly isn’t Freddie, standing in profile by the ra-
dio, dressed in wool slacks and a khaki shirt, dark hair cut short
on the sides so that his ears stick out.
Freddie turns his head to look at him and gives a tentative
smile. “Hi,” he begins, but Ira is already across the room and
wrapping his arms around Freddie, reaching up to cradle the
back of Freddie’s head with his palm, pressing his face into
Freddie’s neck and trying to remember how he was ever able to
breathe with Freddie gone. An arm snakes around Ira’s back and
grips him tightly.
“It’s only the nineteenth,” Ira finally manages.
“The hospital let me go a day early,” Freddie says.
“A medical discharge? But when you wrote, you never
said…” Ira moves to take a step away; the arm around his back
loosens a little as he looks at Freddie, but Ira’s gaze immedi-
ately catches on the sleeve pinned up above where Freddie’s left
elbow should be, and suddenly, Freddie’s odd handling of him
makes terrible sense.
“You’re—” Ira starts, reaching out impulsively.
“Home,” Freddie interrupts, moving his remaining hand to
intercept Ira’s, lacing their fingers together. “I’m home.”

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