Broken

Graham stared wide-eyed at his computer screen. My ex-boyfriend is working at the Federal Department of Parakeets? That can’t be a real thing. The people-search websites he’d paid for had turned up nothing for so long. He hesitated before clicking the link. Nearly all his friends had urged him to stop looking for Farrin, saying things from the ridiculous—He was abducted by aliens—to the possible—His parents sent him to England.

Graham had a journalist’s insatiable curiosity, and it was three years to the day since he’d seen Farrin. There’d been one tantalizing post six months ago after what felt like eternal silence on Farrin’s “Royal Mess” blog. And now this. He absolutely must click the site to solve this new mystery: Why the heck would the government waste taxpayers’ money on a Department of Para—

Oh. It’s a pet store.

How odd that Farrin’s job wasn’t somehow involved with music. Maybe this was the only place that would hire him. That would be typical for Farrin, but with his troubles, holding down any job was progress.

Graham clicked a map. An electric thrill shot through him. If this was real, then Farrin was back from wherever he’d disappeared to, and his place of work was only half an hour away. Graham’s Saturday plans for the gym and shopping evaporated. Now he needed a haircut.

Two hours later, he emerged from the Dupont Metro station still wondering why Farrin would choose a bird store. If Farrin was depressed about his life, was there anything encouraging Graham could say?

Birds are wonderful. You’ve always liked birds, right? Actually, didn’t you have bird photos for all your security images?

But he couldn’t remind Farrin of that mistake. The bad memory blossomed, and Graham stopped short. He could see the store’s lettering and a cheerful green cartoon bird lit in neon. He shivered in the cold wind…[and] paced counterclockwise around the fountain in Dupont Circle for warmth… [Finally, he] stood outside the bird shop, watching tiny finches hop from perch to perch. He shielded his face, more to hide his identity than to block the sun. What if the “transformation” Farrin talked about in that blog post from six months before wasn’t all that real? What if Graham wasn’t supposed to know about that blog post in the first place?

Don’t be a stalker. Just go home.

He walked into the shop.