He had to admit that he missed his bed…and bedroom. The conversation with his mom had made Rolen feel good inside. Even if for a moment, he was able brush aside the confusion and sadness about his dad. Even though he didn’t get to ask his mom whether or not she thought he was still alive, the comparison she made between he and dad felt honorable. Rolen didn’t admire anybody more than his dad.
Rolen’s room was, to put it euphemistically, organized clutter. Or meaningful clutter. His grandparents had always brought souvenirs back from their many trips. Rolen kept them –his favorite being a statue of the Ozarks - on his shelves beside his beloved baseball cards. Posters, maps, newspaper clippings served as his wallpaper. Minus the Oliver tractor, it wasn’t too far removed from his dad’s workshop. Of course he did have a poster of one.
Despite the fatigue, sleep didn’t come easy for Rolen that night. In fact, it didn’t come at all. He couldn’t get a grasp on his overabundant thoughts. They were like coins, a thousand coins, in a spiraling wishing well…aimlessly and endlessly circling and circling, but never dropping. They were all spinning around the hole. What was the hole? What did it represent? Then, like a bolt of lightning, the coins all dropped into the hole at the bottom. Rolen knew exactly what his thoughts were centered around…the one main thought that kept him from closing his eyelids. The answering machine.