A Name

I met a young man on my walk. I have spoken with him several times. He loves my dog Romeo. I saw him again last week. He squatted down and said, "What a good boy he is, so gentle and calm." He was looking Romeo in the eye stroking his head and ears. "I'm moving back to the city," he said, standing back up. "Right now I live in a group home in Lincoln. I'm trying to decide whether to sign up for the YMCA or Planet Fitness."
"The Y is walking distance," I offered.
"You're right and I walk here every day," he said. "Can I give you my number? I know you're married, this is not like that. I just want to stay connected to the people I know in the city."
"Sure," I said, "but my phone is not the best way to reach me. Do you have e-mail?"
"I don't have a computer," he said.
"Okay." I watched him writing his number on a piece of paper. "Rick D," I said out loud. "Do you have a last name?"
"Yes," he said. "Why? Are you going to google me? I have a past."
"Don't worry, I won't. I just like names. Every name tells a story."
"Dracut," he wrote.
"Cool. Like that town in Massachusetts?"
"It's pronounced the same way," he said, handing me back the paper.
"Thanks," I said, folding it into my pocket.
A few days later I came across the note while I was at my desk. I googled Rick Dracut and found a big local news story from ten years ago. Rick Dracut had murdered his father. The courts ruled insanity and his mother said she forgave him. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and then another, and another.