The Memory Painter

*

Neither spoke much on the drive to Bryan’s apartment. He kept his eyes closed and hugged his body, trying to control the shivering.

Like Michael, he now had Bjarni Herjólfsson’s entire life in his mind. He remembered Bjarni and Garnissa’s time together as if it had just happened. The fight to stay grounded in the present had never been harder.

He took Linz’s hand and kissed it, saying something Aldar always said whenever he was about to start a poem, “From a dream I wake, a bearer of fate…”

Linz glanced over at him in surprise. “What language is that?”

“Old Norse.”

She pursed her lips and nodded but didn’t pursue the matter. They drove the rest of the way in silence. Linz killed the engine when they arrived at his building. “I’ll help you up.”

“No. That’s okay.”

“I’m helping you,” she insisted. “You can barely walk.” He was too sick to argue. She kept her arm around him as they made their way to the elevator and up to his apartment.

He fumbled as he tried to open the door. “I can take it from here.”

“Let me just help you get inside.”

Another wave of nausea hit him. Linz took the keys from him and opened the door. He still tried to protest. “Please, just go.”

Ignoring his plea, she walked in—and stopped in her tracks. The storage boxes were scattered all over the place, their contents now strewn across the room.

Linz could barely find a place to walk. “What the hell happened?”