Martha

My coworker's son, Riku, didn't leave his bedroom for three years. In Japan, there's a word for it. Hikikomori. The government estimates there are about 1.5 million of them. People who close a door one day and don't open it again. Riku failed his university entrance exams twice. After the second time, at eighteen, he went into his room. His mother left meals outside the door. Some days the tray came back empty. Some days it didn't. The only thing he did was play an online fishing game. Every evening. Alone. Until one evening, someone on the lake sent him a message. "any luck -L" L was Lyle. 78. A retired machinist from Tennessee. His wife had passed. He said he couldn't sleep, so he fished. He typed like a man carving letters into a headstone. All lowercase. No punctuation. And he signed every message, like a letter. "bass arent biting. same as real life -L" That first month, Riku told him only one true thing: "I don't go outside." Lyle took a full day to answer. "ok. well. we can fish -L" So they fished. Every evening. Same lake. They caught almost nothing. Then one night, Lyle asked a question. "did you open the curtain today -L" Riku hadn't. The next night, Lyle asked again. And the next. On the ninth night, Riku opened the curtain. "good. thats it. thats the whole job -L" After that, one question a night. Never two. "did you eat breakfast -L" "did you open the window -L" "did you go to the mailbox -L" "did you walk to the corner -L" Riku's mother copied the messages into a notebook. She still keeps it by her bed. Some pages: "you dont have to feel better to get up. you get up then you feel a little better. thats the order -L" "a bad day is not a bad life -L" "nobody is behind. youre just on a different mile -L" "if all you did today was get through it that counts. im counting -L" In the eleventh month, Riku asked him why he cared about a stranger in Japan. Lyle took two days to answer. "1969 i came home from vietnam. didnt leave my room for a year. my mother left plates by the door too. i know about the door -L" Then: "curtain first. always curtain first -L" In the twelfth month, Riku walked to the convenience store. Three hundred meters. He bought a can of coffee and sent Lyle a picture. Lyle answered in eleven seconds. Riku had never seen him type that fast. "ATTABOY -L" The only capital letters Lyle ever typed. A week later, a message came from Lyle's daughter. "Please don't tell Dad I told you. He doesn't have insomnia. He never did. For over a year, he set his alarm for 3:45 every morning so he'd be on that lake when you were. He said a boy in Japan needed somebody on the lake." Riku is 23 now. He works at a bicycle shop. He goes outside every day. Last summer, he flew to Tennessee. Lyle picked him up in a truck older than Riku, and they went fishing on a real lake. They caught nothing. Lyle said it was the best day of fishing he ever had. Riku still plays that game. Every evening, he goes back to the same lake and looks for anyone who says they don't go outside. When he finds one, he types: "did you open the curtain today -R" So if you're reading this from a room you haven't left in a while, I don't know you. But I know what Lyle would ask. did you open the curtain today