Brooks Oosterhout __top__ Info

“You’re me,” Brooks said.

He walked another three days. The Polaroid stayed in his shirt pocket. The baseball stayed in his hand, rolling his fingers over the seams like a rosary. brooks oosterhout

He stared at it for a week. Then he quit the diner, packed a bag, and started walking south. “You’re me,” Brooks said

On the sixth day, somewhere south of Olympia, he found a roadside diner that looked almost exactly like The Rusty Spoon. He went in for coffee. The waitress had a streak of gray in her red hair and a tattoo of a baseball on her forearm. She didn’t ask for his order. She just set down a cup and said, “You’re Brooks, aren’t you?” packed a bag