“Yes, it does,” I say. “So, you’re good?”
“Yup,” he says, and turns to face Frederick.
Mr Blandford looks on with interest from a nearby chair. I give him a smile and he returns the gesture, smoothing his hand over his shiny bald head. As nice as he seems, I’m not going to introduce Sam to the undertaker on one of his rare outings to the dining hall. Talk of dead bodies would likely send Sam wheeling at full speed in the other direction. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit.
“Wanna hear a crazy story, trouble?” Fred asks. Sam wheels his chair closer to him.
I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving them to talk amongst themselves.
When I come back ten minutes later, the two men are in intense conversation. Sam is listening intently—his focus is fully on Frederick who is animated, moving his hands, as if signalling an aircraft doing a loop-the-loop. I hang back behind the piano, eavesdropping for a moment.
“Luckily, I made it out alive,” Frederick says.
Sam chuckles. “Bloody lucky, mate.”
“What were you doing with your life before you got here, son?” Frederick asks.
Sam turns his hands over in his lap, the simple movement seemingly difficult for him. “Singing, playing guitar. Was offered a deal with a record label. Then everything turned to shit ... sorry, turned to crap. Had a long time in hospital before I landed here.”
Sam is a singer?
“Crikey. Call me an old coot, but that’s some bad luck.”
“You’re an old coot,” Sam says. The corner of his mouth tugs into a half-hearted smirk.
Frederick laughs out loud and shakes his head. “That’s what my wife used tosay.”
I swallow down the giant lump in my throat as I’m jolted back to the first time Sam and I met and how he sang on his way out of the home with the sheriff.
I need to learn more about Sam. To do that, I’m going to have to spend more time with him.