Thomas

The boy is alone, sitting, waiting for them.  He counts the stars because there's nothing else to do.  He wonders what they'll be like--of course, he already knows.  Except, they don't know him and they haven't met him, not really.  They've only seen it briefly:  the blue and pink and strangled screaming.  A graphic image, he knows.

He wonders if they ever think about him, but of course they do.  All the time.  He was--is--the center of their  minds and hearts and cries.  They hurt because of him.  He caused so much pain, pain.  But they say it was a learning experience.

So the boy will be waiting--has been waiting--for a while.  Because they aren't done here, even though he's already been called home.  He is waiting.  He is waiting.

But when one counts the stars, how long can the wait be, really?  It must take a long time to find the numbers that come after a googolplex.  Because how can you count more than the universe?

Maybe the boy will never count that high.

Maybe he'll meet them sooner.