In Beacon he lives in a stone mansion on a big hill overlooking the Hudson. It's a better view than the one he had at home of the rusty water tower at the top of the street. He has a private room in the back with empty white walls and a huge window that faces the river.

Since I saw him last, he let his dark brown hair grow long. He also grew a beard and it's hard not to notice the little patches of silver. He only gets out of bed to eat or watch television or do occupational therapy. He made me a tie-dye T-shirt that I wear to bed because it's an extra large and fits me like a nightgown. He shows me around the place in Beacon, shuffling in his slippers on the vanilla-tiled floors under the halogen lights that line the hallway ceilings. He points outside to the green hills that lead to the banks of the river and says, "I wish I could go rolling down them." I tell him he ought to but he says, "If I did that, they'd never let me leave."

Outside the place in Beacon I search the windows in the back on top of the hill and see him standing there looking and waving at me. I get down on the grass and lay my body out long and sharp like a needle with my arms stretched above my head, fingers pointing and roll, roll, roll.