I’m on it, then on the ground and at the fence. Then down to the right and through the hole in the fence. Except the backpack gets stuck—a wire goes right through it. I pull and pull and finally yank it free. Then take off for the highway without looking back. I don’t slow down till I see that culvert, running under the highway just ahead.
It’s one of those big old steel culverts, and when I step inside it’s all echoey, cars zooming along up above, truck tires puck-puck ing across the seams. For a sec, standing there, I feel invisible, thinking how none of those drivers have any idea there’s a kid right under them, thinking how all those people back at the funeral home are figuring out—right now— that I took off, and none of them knows, just for this little bit, where I am. No one has got any idea that I’m right here, leaning my backpack against the culvert, thinking the steel looks like ribs inside some giant dinosaur that I’m right in the middle of. Invisible. Except I know I’m not invisible. I know I got to find that storm sewer and climb inside, because sooner or later someone’s going to think to have a look under here. So I start through the culvert to the other side.
It’s spooky in the middle. Light at both ends, but dark here, the rocks ponk ing when I step on them. Just when it gets scariest, when I get a feeling on my neck that makes me shiver my shoulders, it starts to get lighter from the daylight at the other end. Then I’m through and the storm sewer is right there—a round, concrete tube just big enough for me to crawl inside. It’s tight. I have to take my backpack off and push it in front of me. But I can keep my feet dry by walking like a crab, shuffling up the side of the pipe. I don’t want to get a soaker, with the key being inside my sneaker and all. Every once in a while I look back down the pipe, and when the light at the opening is pretty much just a little dot I stop and wait.
When you wait someplace where there’s nothing to do, you start to think about stuff. That’s probably why they have those ratty old magazines in the doctor’s office—to give you something to think about besides how much your ear hurts. But there’s no magazines here, so I start to notice other stuff, like how quick it gets cold in a place where there’s no sun—cold that goes right into the middle of you. And about Nick’s hand—about if it gets itchy. That’s the kind of thing you think about when you’re waiting in a dark place where you can’t read. If I can’t read anything, I can still hear plenty, and what I hear is a skitter-skitter behind me, getting closer. Whatever it is sounds big, but everything seems big when you can’t see it—like a bump on your leg you find in bed at night and it feels like it must be bigger than a big brown egg, which means it’s gotta be cancer, except in the morning you look at it and it’s a little pimple. That’s how it is with stuff you can’t see—it always sounds bigger than it is. Except I suppose it doesn’t always. I suppose sometimes it probably is as big and scary as you think, but I guess you don’t hear about those times because the person ends up getting eaten by a grizzly bear he thought was a raccoon.
But this isn’t a raccoon—I know that for sure because they don’t have raccoons in Newfoundland. I read that before we came out here. It could be a rat, though, or a bunch of them. Which I’ve never seen before because we don’t have rats in Alberta. That’s true. Not one rat. We’ve got a Rat Patrol that goes around killing them, right at the border, if any try to sneak in. I’d sure like to see that Rat Patrol right now with their big flashlight and a . 22 , shining down here to scare off those rats. I think that’s what it’s got to be. Yes! I see one now, something furry, moving back and forth along the concrete. And another one behind it—and another one. Jesus. I’ve got to move toward the light, even if
It’s one of those big old steel culverts, and when I step inside it’s all echoey, cars zooming along up above, truck tires puck-puck ing across the seams. For a sec, standing there, I feel invisible, thinking how none of those drivers have any idea there’s a kid right under them, thinking how all those people back at the funeral home are figuring out—right now— that I took off, and none of them knows, just for this little bit, where I am. No one has got any idea that I’m right here, leaning my backpack against the culvert, thinking the steel looks like ribs inside some giant dinosaur that I’m right in the middle of. Invisible. Except I know I’m not invisible. I know I got to find that storm sewer and climb inside, because sooner or later someone’s going to think to have a look under here. So I start through the culvert to the other side.
It’s spooky in the middle. Light at both ends, but dark here, the rocks ponk ing when I step on them. Just when it gets scariest, when I get a feeling on my neck that makes me shiver my shoulders, it starts to get lighter from the daylight at the other end. Then I’m through and the storm sewer is right there—a round, concrete tube just big enough for me to crawl inside. It’s tight. I have to take my backpack off and push it in front of me. But I can keep my feet dry by walking like a crab, shuffling up the side of the pipe. I don’t want to get a soaker, with the key being inside my sneaker and all. Every once in a while I look back down the pipe, and when the light at the opening is pretty much just a little dot I stop and wait.
When you wait someplace where there’s nothing to do, you start to think about stuff. That’s probably why they have those ratty old magazines in the doctor’s office—to give you something to think about besides how much your ear hurts. But there’s no magazines here, so I start to notice other stuff, like how quick it gets cold in a place where there’s no sun—cold that goes right into the middle of you. And about Nick’s hand—about if it gets itchy. That’s the kind of thing you think about when you’re waiting in a dark place where you can’t read. If I can’t read anything, I can still hear plenty, and what I hear is a skitter-skitter behind me, getting closer. Whatever it is sounds big, but everything seems big when you can’t see it—like a bump on your leg you find in bed at night and it feels like it must be bigger than a big brown egg, which means it’s gotta be cancer, except in the morning you look at it and it’s a little pimple. That’s how it is with stuff you can’t see—it always sounds bigger than it is. Except I suppose it doesn’t always. I suppose sometimes it probably is as big and scary as you think, but I guess you don’t hear about those times because the person ends up getting eaten by a grizzly bear he thought was a raccoon.
But this isn’t a raccoon—I know that for sure because they don’t have raccoons in Newfoundland. I read that before we came out here. It could be a rat, though, or a bunch of them. Which I’ve never seen before because we don’t have rats in Alberta. That’s true. Not one rat. We’ve got a Rat Patrol that goes around killing them, right at the border, if any try to sneak in. I’d sure like to see that Rat Patrol right now with their big flashlight and a . 22 , shining down here to scare off those rats. I think that’s what it’s got to be. Yes! I see one now, something furry, moving back and forth along the concrete. And another one behind it—and another one. Jesus. I’ve got to move toward the light, even if
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