He lives in a hotel room, a suite with comfortable furniture and a nice bed, big wooden cabinets where he can store his things. He goes to the bank in the morning, watches cable in the hotel after work, and lounges around in his sweatpants and gray Columbia fleece pullover. He shares a white Pontiac Vibe hatchback with one of his co-workers. He's a tall guy, 46 years old, a little pudgy, with high blood pressure.
In March, Walt goes to Florida and takes Christopher back out to the beach at Ponce Inlet. They sit up in the front seat of the Celica listening to an audiotape of The Aristocats. Christopher eats a bag of Doritos Cool Ranch chips and, later, two McDonald's double cheeseburgers, layer by layer. "Aaah, eeehh, uhhhhh!" he shouts, off and on. They drive by the mall where he was found in the fountain with the pennies. "Wow, dude!" Walt says, looking into the empty bag. He leans in and puts his face right up to Christopher's, almost touching his nose, and says, "You're my best buddy." Christopher giggles and then stares at the passing cars.
Christopher walks on the beach and looks around, then goes into a bathroom to put on his swim trunks. He dips his feet into the water, recoils upon discovering how cold it is. The waves press into the rocks, the jetty long and uneven out to the ocean. Christopher lies on his stomach in the sand, laughing.
But when Walt takes him back to the group home at around 9:30 that night, Christopher, who had been silent and mostly calm the entire day, looks at his father, then throws his cup of McDonald's water at the car window. When Walt gets out of the car in front of the group home, Christopher runs into the empty street and sits on the concrete of the cul-de-sac, beneath the streetlight. He looks lost and frightened in the glow. He starts hitting his head with his fists and shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Please, buddy, please," Walt begs.
Walt puts his hands under Christopher's arms and tries to stand him up. Christopher won't budge. Walt's voice quivers, "I know you don't want me to leave, man, but I have to."
He manages to stand Christopher upright and drag him about 20 feet toward the door of the home, and then Christopher jumps at him, sinks his teeth into Walt's arm, so Walt lets go and falls halfway to the ground. It had been so easy to forget all day.
Walt cries out in pain.
"Why, Christopher, why?"
Tears are running down his face, with nothing but the back of his bitten arm to wipe them away.
Christopher just stands there.
Walt has tried to imagine what that night was like for Christopher. He has imagined it repeatedly, in his sleep, at his work, in his rented hotel suite with the curtains drawn, the empty plastic soup containers on the counter. He has imagined Christopher giggling and splashing, the fish touching his back and arms; Christopher staring in awe at the dolphin snouts and falling stars, soothed by the foam tops of the waves; has imagined the whole night was like this one big adventure, the biggest adventure Christopher will ever have in his life, floating on his back as the water warmed his ears, in wonder as the sounds changed beneath the surface; has imagined that those sounds captivated his son's imagination, and that since Christopher loves to float and swim more than anything, perhaps he even had fun. And the phosphorescence, the most colorful thing, he hopes it passed his son in a trail on the top of the water, long and thin, sparkling there like something hopeful; prays that Christopher got to see it. He has to believe he did. He can just picture Christopher sticking his hand in the filmy substance, holding it up to the moonlight, slick and shiny and Disney green. In fact, he cannot bring himself to imagine anything else. Walt aches for the day, a day that will probably never come, when he'll be able to actually talk to Christopher, and ask him about what he saw and what he felt and what he was thinking, how he survived.
But really, all he can do is wonder.