Memory Boy by Will Weaver

didn’t mind Mr. Kurz one bit.”
    I stood there taking in little breaths and letting them out.
    â€œHis family was worthless, though,” the nurse continued. “We called them several times, but in the end we had to do all the arrangements ourselves.”
    â€œArrangements?”
    â€œGet him to the funeral home. Make sure he was cremated—that’s what he wanted—then bring him back here to the chapel.”
    I nodded.
    â€œâ€˜Burn me up. Dump my ashes in the river. That way nobody will ever find me.’” The nurse did a very good imitation of Mr. Kurz’s raspy voice.
    We both smiled. Suddenly the nurse ballooned and tilted as water welled up in my eyes.
    The nurse put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay, kid?”
    â€œSure,” I said quickly.
    There was a pause. “I won’t lie to you, Miles. It was sad. His family never even came for his ashes. And he never got around to telling me which river.”
    I blinked and blinked. Down the hall someone moaned loudly.
    The nurse hesitated. Then he said, “Sorry. I gotta go. The living, you know.”
    â€œSure. Thanks,” I said. “See you around.”
    But he was already walking away toward the moaning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
BIRCH BAY
    IN THE MORNING THE TENT was clammy and dewy inside. Sarah—as usual—had managed to angle her sleeping bag across most of the space. I quietly unzipped the tent flap and looked outside. Our cabin was tall and still. For a moment I hoped I had only dreamed the squatters—but the Harley remained parked on the front porch.
    I pulled on my shoes and slipped out. I’d always liked early mornings down at the beach, before the lake got busy with boats and whining little Jet Skis. I eased toward the back side of the cabin (a nest of fresh cigarette butts lay by the steps) and along its thick, reddish logs.
    Our logs.
    Our moss on our logs.
    Our spiderwebs shiny with dew on our moss on our logs.
    I suddenly felt ashamed to be sneaking along; I straightened up. I was almost down to the shore when the goats saw me. They began to lunge against their little corral fence and go “Baack-baack-baack” like crazy; I froze—and was still frozen when Danny the biker stumbled out the back door with a gun.
    I knew a little bit about guns, mainly from Mr. Kurz, and this gun was huge. It was long, with a big barrel and a wooden forearm: a slide-action shotgun of some kind. Danny was jacking a shell into the chamber as he came out the back.
    Then he saw me.
    We stared at each other.
    â€œWhat are you doing back here?” he growled.
    â€œI’m going down to the beach.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I shrugged. I was usually fairly clever with words, but that gun shrank my vocal cords.
    â€œI don’t want you fooling around back here,” Danny said. “You’re making the goats nervous. They won’t milk right.”
    Somehow I doubted that—the goats seemed more like dogs that wanted to play—but I managed to say, “Sure, mister.”
    He stared at me, then lowered the gun. He nodded his head back toward our campsite and the Princess . “I meant to ask, what’s the story on that buggy with the sail? I ain’t ever seen one of those before.”
    â€œProbably not,” I said.
    â€œYour rich old man buy it somewhere?”
    â€œNo. I made it.”
    â€œYou made it? No bull, kid?” Big Danny said.
    â€œNo bull.”
    â€œPretty ding-danged impressive.” He leaned the shotgun against the back porch and smiled like we were pals. “You’re pretty handy for a scrawny little devil.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. My natural sense of sarcasm was coming back fast.
    He stared at me for a long moment. “Too bad this cabin is full, else you folks could crash here for the winter. You’d be good around here, fixing things. Better than Rick, that’s for sure. He’s worthless with tools, and