He’d climbed up and jumped down on the lawn over and over again, convinced he was flying. He had been flying, except he couldn’t have. Memories claimed he’d slowly descended toward the ground, that he’d been able to decide how fast he was gonna drop. It was a miracle he hadn’t hurt himself.
Arlo frowned. How had Mama known he needed to be outdoors? How had she known what was happening in the hospital—he hadn’t had a clue, but she’d told him to stop, hadn’t she? Had told him never to start.
It didn’t matter now, nothing mattered. He had to leave. A longing for moonlight or not, he needed to leave while he still had a chance. He couldn’t afford any complications someone like Nash would bring into his life.