Cujo by Stephen King

right, and would they kindly return the key to the same place after they had made their pickup. Thank you, thank you, blahdeblah, bullshit-bullshit. There would be some inconvenience, but no real hassle.
    Steve dropped the letters into the mailbox. There was that satisfied feeling of having his ass well covered. He droveaway toward Portland, singing along with the Grateful Dead, who were delivering “Sugaree.” He pushed the van up to fifty-five, hoping traffic would stay light so he could get to Portland early enough to grab a court at Tennis of Maine. All in all, it looked like a good day. If Mr. Businessman hadn’t received his little letter bomb yet, he surely would today. Nifty, Steve thought, and burst out laughing.
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    At half past seven, as Steve Kemp was thinking tennis and Vic Trenton was reminding himself to call Joe Camber about his wife’s balky Pinto, Charity Camber was fixing her son’s breakfast. Joe had left for Lewiston half an hour ago, hoping to find a ’72 Camaro windshield at one of the city’s automobile junkyards or used-parts outfits. This jibed well with Charity’s plans, which she had made slowly and carefully.
    She put Brett’s plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him and then sat down next to the boy. Brett glanced up from the book he was reading in mild surprise. After fixing his breakfast, his mother usually started on her round of morning chores. If you spoke to her too much before she got herself around a second cup of coffee, she was apt to show you the rough side of her tongue.
    â€œCan I talk to you a minute, Brett?”
    Mild surprise turned to something like amazement. Looking at her, he saw something utterly foreign to his mother’s taciturn nature. She was nervous. He closed his book and said, “Sure, Mom.”
    â€œWould you like—” She cleared her throat and began again. “How would you like to go down to Stratford, Connecticut, and see your Aunt Holly and your Uncle Jim? And your cousins?”
    Brett grinned. He had only been out of Maine twice in his life, most recently with his father on a trip to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They had gone to a used-car auction where Joe had picked up a ’58 Ford with a hemi engine. “Sure!” he said. “When?”
    â€œI was thinking of Monday,” she said. “After the weekend of the Fourth. We’d be gone a week. Could you do that?”
    â€œI guess! Jeez, I thought Dad had a lot of work lined up for next week. He must have—”
    â€œI haven’t mentioned this to your father yet.”
    Brett’s grin fell apart. He picked up a piece of bacon andbegan to eat it. “Well, I know he promised Richie Simms he’d pull the motor on his International Harvester. And Mr. Miller from the school was gonna bring over his Ford because the tranny’s shot. And—”
    â€œI thought just the two of us would go,” Charity said. “On the Greyhound from Portland.”
    Brett looked doubtful. Outside the back-porch screen, Cujo padded slowly up the steps and collapsed onto the boards in the shade with a grunt. He looked in at THE BOY and THE WOMAN with weary, red-rimmed eyes. He was feeling very bad now, very bad indeed.
    â€œJeez, Mom, I don’t know—”
    â€œDon’t say jeez. It’s just the same as swearing.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œWould you like to go? If your father said it was all right?”
    â€œYeah, really! Do you really think we could?”
    â€œMaybe.” She was looking out through the window over the sink thoughtfully.
    â€œHow far is it to Stratford, Mom?”
    â€œAbout three hundred and fifty miles, I guess.”
    â€œJee—I mean, boy, that’s a long way. Is it—”
    â€œBrett.”
    He looked at her attentively. That curious intense quality was back in her voice and on her face. That nervousness.
    â€œWhat,