dropped off an elderly passenger. As he approached a major intersection, he grunted and clutched his chest. Soon after, the car jolted. Later, I learned that the Predecessor had suffered a heart attack and, unable to apply the brakes, rear-ended a truck that was stopped at the light. I fell from my place on the passenger seat into the footwell. Always conscious of safety, the Predecessor had his seat belt fastened and avoided striking his head on the windshield. He noticed me on the floor and reached for me with his left hand. A metallic shriek engulfed the car. The Predecessor looked up in surprise, and the windshield shattered, raining down, and a gas cloud filled the interior. I heard footsteps running toward us, and someone opened the door, dissipating the gas. When the cloud cleared, the first thing I saw was my master looking down at me, his gaze vacant, from the nearby passenger seat. I found this somewhat odd, since the rest of him—from the neck down—remained seated on the driver’s side. Shrill screams sprang from the crowd noise. The Predecessor’s right hand still gripped the steering wheel. Above his shoulders, a piece of corrugated sheeting had severed the headrest and extended into the rear cabin. Where the sheeting met his body, fresh blood spilled forth as if from poorly fitted plumbing, and his hand at the wheel slowly opened, a wilting flower, and thudded to his lap. His eyes remained open, staring at me.
Two weeks after the accident, the Young Master came to the police station to retrieve the evidence box in which I had been placed. I didn’t know much about him—a rudeness on my part. His Predecessor, having lost his wife at a young age, had rarely spoken of his family in front of his passengers. My former master had made a great effort to keep his family matters from entering his work. The Young Master brought me into his room, a largely empty space. He flipped through my pages, then tossed me into the waste bin.
My disposal didn’t sadden me. I merely sighed and resigned myself to this being the end of everything. After all, I had deviated quite far from what a map was supposed to be, and everything I had done had been for the Predecessor; being discarded upon his death was a fate I had brought upon myself.
The next day, the Young Master put me into a trash bag with various other refuse and left me with the rest of the apartment complex garbage. The Young Master apparently didn’t cook for himself, and my pages remained unsoiled by moist kitchen waste. Then something happened that I could scarcely believe. The Young Master came back and retrieved me alone from the trash. He stuffed me into his bookcase and left me there.
One night, some two weeks later, he pulled me from the shelf, his face flushed. I thought he might have had a few drinks. The Young Master opened me, and his eyes stopped on one of his Predecessor’s X marks. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, finding all eight marks, then took me with him for a ride in his Land Cruiser. Having already been through one accident, I was beside myself with worry for the inebriated Young Master. His Predecessor had never been much for drinking, and even if he ever had a drink, I don’t believe he would have even considered getting behind the wheel. But now the Young Master arrived at one of those X marks, and began searching around for quite some time, shovel in hand, and then he was digging. At least, I was later able to infer this when he laid the plastic bag beside me on the passenger seat. Inside the bag were several human fingers, their bones poking out like pieces of muddy ginger root.
Beginning that night, the Young Master visited each mark, bringing back plastic bags with bits and pieces from each. Even after he had made the full tour, he returned to the marks whenever the mood struck him, where he seemed to take advice—or an explanation—from the things that used to be his father’s passengers. I have no way of
Two weeks after the accident, the Young Master came to the police station to retrieve the evidence box in which I had been placed. I didn’t know much about him—a rudeness on my part. His Predecessor, having lost his wife at a young age, had rarely spoken of his family in front of his passengers. My former master had made a great effort to keep his family matters from entering his work. The Young Master brought me into his room, a largely empty space. He flipped through my pages, then tossed me into the waste bin.
My disposal didn’t sadden me. I merely sighed and resigned myself to this being the end of everything. After all, I had deviated quite far from what a map was supposed to be, and everything I had done had been for the Predecessor; being discarded upon his death was a fate I had brought upon myself.
The next day, the Young Master put me into a trash bag with various other refuse and left me with the rest of the apartment complex garbage. The Young Master apparently didn’t cook for himself, and my pages remained unsoiled by moist kitchen waste. Then something happened that I could scarcely believe. The Young Master came back and retrieved me alone from the trash. He stuffed me into his bookcase and left me there.
One night, some two weeks later, he pulled me from the shelf, his face flushed. I thought he might have had a few drinks. The Young Master opened me, and his eyes stopped on one of his Predecessor’s X marks. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, finding all eight marks, then took me with him for a ride in his Land Cruiser. Having already been through one accident, I was beside myself with worry for the inebriated Young Master. His Predecessor had never been much for drinking, and even if he ever had a drink, I don’t believe he would have even considered getting behind the wheel. But now the Young Master arrived at one of those X marks, and began searching around for quite some time, shovel in hand, and then he was digging. At least, I was later able to infer this when he laid the plastic bag beside me on the passenger seat. Inside the bag were several human fingers, their bones poking out like pieces of muddy ginger root.
Beginning that night, the Young Master visited each mark, bringing back plastic bags with bits and pieces from each. Even after he had made the full tour, he returned to the marks whenever the mood struck him, where he seemed to take advice—or an explanation—from the things that used to be his father’s passengers. I have no way of
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