Building Number 4

Basketball hoop behind Building Number 4.

    An elderly man lay naked. It was summertime. He snoozed on the bank of a river in Massachusetts. His arms and legs were stretched out. Next to his ear lay a shaving razor. A rubber raft, tethered to a branch, floated nearby.
    Since his name was unknown to me, I’ll call him Jake.
    The location was rural. A cliff rose above Jake. Atop this bluff stood two boys. They noticed Jake basking in the sun. One of those boys was me. I was a teen at the time.
    My friend and I made a logical assumption: Jake had slipped away—or outright escaped—from a mental institution. It was located nearby, behind a tract of woods.
    We informed the institution about Jake. At the time, our action appeared sensible. Jake would probably need help. Not only that, some of the patients there, and possibly Jake, were criminally insane.
    Forty plus years have passed since then. The institution has long since closed.
    Yesterday I strolled the grounds. It was like walking through a ghost town, with decaying buildings, shuttered windows, and boarded up doors.
    I wondered where Jake had lived.
    It was impossible to know the functions of particular buildings. Numbers identified them, nothing else.
    I walked by the smaller buildings. They appeared likely to have housed patients. Building Number 4 caught my eye. The door was locked but not bordered up. I pressed a camera against glass.
    Decay was everywhere. A hallway led to a room shrouded in darkness. The scene was creepy. I shuddered at the thought of Jake being confined there.
    He had crept away from a depressing place. When I noticed him, he was doing more than basking in sunshine. He was basking in freedom.
    Today my heart is heavy. I regret turning in Jake.

Hallway is visible through window on front door.