Pointed.

"This is where I was born." He points out the window, at a house. At a home. He points. And he remembers, "My brother and I shared the back porch for a bedroom. My mother worked at the Denny's on the corner just down here."

We drive a little farther. A little deeper. He points.
"I can't even tell you how many meals I ate at that Denny's."

He's a million miles away, right beside me. Looking at the Denny's. Pointing, at the memory. He's in his head, he's in his memory. And I am looking where he's pointing. I am looking.

"I would pull over, but I can't." He focuses ahead of us, on the road.

"I understand." I do, in a way. On a level. In a heartbeat. But I don't. Not really. Not where he is. Not what he sees.

He isn't magic. He's the normalcy. He isn't exploding.
He just is.

"When I was about 12 I wanted to play guitar."

I nod. "Didn't we all." I just don't want him to feel isolated. I just don't want him to be alone. I just don't. So I point. And he sees.

He stops at a red light on White Lane and Real Road. He stops. And he gestures towards the darker part of the night. "I used to walk this street. I used to know this place." It used to be home. It used to be. Now it's just a place. A place where he points and remembers. Where he drives, but doesn't stop. Where he can't. Where he just passes through.

I lay my hand on his thigh. "Do you want me to drive for a while?"

He doesn't answer. He lays his hand on top of mine. He's looking. He drives. He remembers.

"This is where it happened." He points ahead of us. At the road. With precision. "This is where I crashed."

And he drives. And we pass, through the intersection where it happened. No one knows the groove in the Earth like he does. Right here. No one knows it like he does. And then it's behind us. And we're driving. He remembers. He was born here and he died here. And he can't live here ever again. He just points, and he remembers. And I see it. Where he's pointing.
And I see.
Until he turns away.
Then it's just darkness, and Denny's. And an intersection.