This seems like a good place to explain a few things about Quinn’s past. He had been born in the city, and lived there for six years, in a comfortable apartment with his mother, father, and fort a short term, his maternal grandmother, before she moved to Florida.

As long as Quinn could remember, there had been oddities about his father’s, and his family’s, behavior. He was often sent to friends’ houses to stay for somewhat extended periods—at most, he said, a week and a half—and here he had observed just how different his family was.

It wasn’t that they were circus performers, or anything. Quinn’s father had developed cancer during the pregnancy, and had been fighting it for five years. The grandmother, though she did her best to help, could only do so much, so Quinn was sent to stay with friends when she needed a break. Plus, they just didn’t want him to know what was going on.

After Quinn’s father died, they tried to stay in the apartment for another few months, but it was too much. They moved to our suburbs shortly after.

So much of Quinn was from his father. The man was his hero, and it was from him that Quinn inherited his penchant for fixing cars, his rusty hair, and his beautiful singing eyes.

I once told Quinn about this, about how when he was sad, I thought his eyes sang with such tragic desperation. He sat quiet for a few moments, then looked at me, eyes only humming a bit. He told me that the day his father died was the first time his eyes performed a symphony.

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03 February 2009, 12:17