Wrinkled Wing Jess Chiotelis

“We’ve still got a few pages left,” he says.

His unclipped nails still mark the page. He drapes his flannel back over himself as my eyes turn back to their proper green, and he reads aloud again.

The next fall we’ll be sophomores. I’ll ask him if he wants to try Bible study with me on Sundays. I’ll say that I’ll make it simple. That he doesn’t have to prepare anything and that he should give it a shot and see if he likes it. He’ll say he has no interest. He’ll say he doesn’t think he needs it when I pry further. And why would he say any different? He still knows what he doesn’t know, and I remain certain of the unknowable.