S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller Read Online Free PDF

used several times a day, but it lacked the import and substance he needed here.
    His grandmother Svetla in Sofia sent handwritten notes several times a year, full of advice in spotty English. She sent longer letters with the small presents for his birthday in January. Her Old World advice had once been wise and occasionally inspirational, considering they’d met in person only a handful of times. As she grew older, however, it had devolved from the vaguely practical “Never economize on your teeth” to the oddly ponderous “Eat a cooked fruit every day.” In the past year, her letters had turned to warnings about girls and sex and the troubles he could get into. They were hardened and off-pitch and in old-woman handwriting, and they made him queasy.
    Then there was Marcie, his good and best friend. But that wasn’t influence; it was companionship. He was her sidekick and audience, but he hadn’t learned from her or developed any skills or insights from their friendship. He tried to weave an essay out of their relationship, but after an hour, he hadn’t finished a sentence.
    It was 2:13 a.m. He laced up his Nikes, slipped out of the apartment, and went running on the streets.
    He ran often to unclog his head, and he ran fast, without stretching or warming up or earphones. He just went racing through the quiet night. For the first time, he noticed his big feet slapping against the pavement, his long strides stretching farther and faster, until he was at full sprint. His mother was so petite and birdlike in her walk and mannerisms. They had very different wiring. Even their coloring was different—Marcie was olive and slightly Mediterranean; Cody had a pale, freckled face and copper-colored hair.
    Cody thought and planned ahead and brooded and puzzled and got stymied and frustrated and kept it to himself. Marcie was impulsive and mercurial and loud and often sloppy. She rode life where it took her, and Cody had clutched her back, bouncing along fitfully since birth.
    He was breathing harder and sprinting faster.
    What had emerged in him over the past two years? Why this acute unsettledness that had nothing to do with his “temporary” city? Where did the restlessness grow from? It wasn’t anger or adolescent moodiness; it felt like a natural evolution and permanent development, and he welcomed it. He wanted adventure and to go places, whatever that meant. But his mind had, recently and instinctively, started winnowing down those generalities and strained toward specifics.
    This evolution pulled him farther from his mother, as much as he loved her. She’d done nothing to trigger these latent and fuzzy yearnings. They’d lain coiled in his DNA and quietly, gradually coursed their way upward to overtake his physical self, along with his deepening voice and chin stubble. It wasn’t a coincidence they had all arrived together.
    Cody looked at the street sign. He was very far from home. His mind was churning out thoughts disorganized and scattershot. But the tap was open.
    He sprinted back, wet and winded now. It was 3:07 a.m.
    He sat down at his laptop and wrote until dawn. About the father he’d never met and knew so well.
    •   •   •
    “You ready, kiddo?” Marcie called from the living room a few hours later. “Joan says there’s a forty-five minute wait at the Tunnel.” Marcie gauged all traffic throughout New Jersey off Joan’s Lincoln Tunnel report from New York’s NBC affiliate. It was usually indicative.
    “Almost,” Cody called back, toweling dry. He’d slept for ninety minutes and was wide-awake and alert.
    He’d double- and triple-checked his answers on the application for accuracy. He’d checked the box affirming its truthfulness. He’d revised and spell-checked his writing sample.
    He dressed quickly and went back to read his essay once last time, but stopped.
    He’d faced as much of himself as he could for one night. He hit “submit” and then ran out the