Chapter 8: The Pony BoyMarch 18. The next morning. Mason called me into his room as I passed outside his bedroom door. The clock said eight-twenty; fourteen minutes too fast. “Mr. Bass, come in here! There’s something I want to show you!” If we had visitors in Chester House they would have sat straight up from sleep because of his yelling. Andy, the actor, slept like a rock, so he didn’t budge. Sebold had gotten up early and busied himself outside, cleaning ice off my truck.
Mason’s door was cracked ever so slightly. I pushed it open and walked in. The room looked subtle with light blues: writing desk, wooden chair, four-drawer dresser, closet near the window that overlooked Lincoln Street. Probably enough room for him. Maybe bigger than his room back in Utah. More space than he shared wi
