Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

falling. They were on a Portuguese site, where there was all sorts of stuff they weren't showing here, even though it happened here. Whenever I want to try to learn about how Dad died, I have to go to a translator program and find out how to say things in different languages, like 'September,' which is 'Wrzesień,' or 'people jumping from burning buildings,' which is 'Menschen, die aus brennenden Gebäuden springen.' Then I Google those words. It makes me incredibly angry that people all over the world can know things that I can't, because it happened here, and happened to me, so shouldn't it be mine?
    “I printed out the frames from the Portuguese videos and examined them extremely closely. There's one body that could be him. It's dressed like he was, and when I magnify it until the pixels are so big that it stops looking like a person, sometimes I can see glasses. Or I think I can. But I know I probably can't. It's just me wanting it to be him.”
    “You want him to have jumped?”
    “I want to stop inventing. If I could know how he died, exactly how he died, I wouldn't have to invent him dying inside an elevator that was stuck between floors, which happened to some people, and I wouldn't have to imagine him trying to crawl down the outside of the building, which I saw a video of one person doing on a Polish site, or trying to use a tablecloth as a parachute, like some of the people who were in Windows on the World actually did. There were so many different ways to die, and I just need to know which was his.”
    He held out his hands like he wanted me to take them. “Are those tattoos?” He closed his right hand. I flipped back and pointed at “Why?” He took back his hands and wrote, “It's made things easier. Instead of writing yes and no all the time, I can show my hands.” “But why just YES and NO?” “I only have two hands.” “What about 'I'll think about it,' and 'probably,' and 'it's possible'?” He closed his eyes and concentrated for a few seconds. Then he shrugged his shoulders, just like Dad used to.
    “Have you always been silent?” He opened his right hand. “Then why don't you talk?” He wrote, “I can't.” “Why not?” He pointed at, “I can't.” “Are your vocal cords broken or something?” “Something is broken.” “When was the last time you talked?” “A long, long time ago.” “What was the last word you said?” He flipped back and pointed at “I.” “I was the last word you said?” He opened his left hand. “Does that even count as a word?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Do you try to talk?” “I know what will happen.” “What?” He flipped back and pointed at, “I can't.”
    “Try.” “Now?” “Try to say something.” He shrugged his shoulders. I said, “Please.”
    He opened his mouth and put his fingers on his throat. They fluttered, like Mr. Black's fingers looking for a one-word biography, but no sound came out, not even an ugly sound, or breath.
    I asked him, “What were you trying to say?” He flipped back and pointed at, “I'm sorry.” I said, “It's OK.” I said, “Maybe your vocal cords actually are broken. You should go to a specialist.” I asked him, “What were you trying to say?” He pointed at, “I'm sorry.”
    I asked, “Can I take a picture of your hands?”
    He put his hands on his lap, face-up, like a book.
    YES and NO.
    I focused Grandpa's camera.
    He kept his hands extremely still.
    I took the picture.
    I told him, “I'm going to go home now.” He picked up his book and wrote, “What about your grandma?” “Tell her I'll talk to her tomorrow.”
    As I was halfway across the street, I heard clapping behind me, almost like the birds' wings outside Mr. Black's window. I turned around and the renter was standing at the building's door. He put his hand on his throat and opened his mouth, like he was trying to speak again.
    I called back to him, “What are you trying to say?”
    He wrote something in his book and held it up, but I couldn't see it, so I ran back over. It said, “Please don't tell your grandmother that we met.” I told him, “I won't if you won't,” and I didn't even wonder the obvious thing, which was why would he want to keep it a secret? He wrote, “If you ever need me for anything, just throw pebbles at the guest room window. I'll come down and meet you under the streetlamp.” I said, “Thanks.” Although inside what I was thinking was, Why would I ever need you?
    All I wanted