above the
melody and under the moon, those lonely little ghosts started whispering to him
again: You’ve got to get out of here. You’ve got to find flour place, your
family, before you rot and die.
“All
right,” he said after listening for a while. “All right.” All at once he knew
he had to leave. It was inevitable, and he wondered what he had been waiting
for. He would go south, looking for what he wanted, hopefully knowing it when
he found it. Maybe he would even hook up with the musicians from Lost Souls?
The name of their town was fascinating: he pictured it as a mysterious southern
crossroads, a hamlet where the ordinary became exotic. He had found it on a map
of North Carolina, a tiny dot between the mountains and the sea, a town whose
streets Nothing pictured as dusty and strange, whose shops were crammed with
dark secondhand treasures, whose graveyards were haunted, whose moon rose full
and honeyed behind the lacework of towering pines.
He
said the name to himself and shivered: Missing Mile.
Nothing
crossed his dark room and let himself into the hall. His parents were out
somewhere—a consciousness-raising group, a holistic health class, an expensive
dinner with other people like themselves. Their bedroom door was ajar, and the
room within smelled of perfumed soap and after-shave. The odors struck him as
stinging and chemical.
They
said his room smelled bad.
His
fingers searched the bottom of the dresser drawer, familiar by now, and found
the note at once. Its presence in his hand was comforting, its ink faded, its
edges soft and ragged from all the times he had held it over the past three
years. He slipped it into his pocket. He considered the collection of crystals
on top of the dresser, then picked up the one he liked best, a piece of rose
quartz. He curled his hand around it.
No,
he decided; it was too tainted with Mother’s touch, with her antimagic . After a few minutes of hunting he found Mother’s
cache of emergency money in her jewelry box and took that instead. A hundred
dollars. It wouldn’t last until he got where he was going, but it would help.
After that —Well, after that I’ll find something else, he told himself.
Next
he used the phone. Jack wasn’t home, but Nothing called around and found him at
Skittle’s, the pizza shop downtown where his friends hung out at night. “Can
you drive me to Columbia?” he asked.
“Gas
isn’t free, dude.” Jack was eighteen, had a fake ID that got him served at the
liquor store, and considered himself the lord of the local scene.
“I
can pay you. I have to catch a bus. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Folks
giving you too much shit, huh?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. “Okay, I can
take you tonight. Five bucks for the gas if you got it. Meet me here at
midnight.”
How
far could you ride a Greyhound for ninety-five dollars? Far enough to start
with.
“Thanks,
Jack,” he said. “See you at midnight.”
“Hey,
Laine wants to talk to you,” Jack said, but Nothing was already hanging up.
Back
in his room he huddled under the quilt. It was only nine o’clock, he could
sleep for a couple of hours before walking into town to meet Jack and the
others. But his mind would not shut down. His eyes would not stay closed. Even
the whiskey didn’t help; he realized he was maddeningly sober.
He
rolled over, hugged himself, then felt under his mattress and pulled out a
single-edged razor blade. Gently, lovingly, he pulled the edge across his
wrist. A thin line of crimson welled up, beading and running, bright against
the pale tracery of old scars. Nothing lay under his
melody and under the moon, those lonely little ghosts started whispering to him
again: You’ve got to get out of here. You’ve got to find flour place, your
family, before you rot and die.
“All
right,” he said after listening for a while. “All right.” All at once he knew
he had to leave. It was inevitable, and he wondered what he had been waiting
for. He would go south, looking for what he wanted, hopefully knowing it when
he found it. Maybe he would even hook up with the musicians from Lost Souls?
The name of their town was fascinating: he pictured it as a mysterious southern
crossroads, a hamlet where the ordinary became exotic. He had found it on a map
of North Carolina, a tiny dot between the mountains and the sea, a town whose
streets Nothing pictured as dusty and strange, whose shops were crammed with
dark secondhand treasures, whose graveyards were haunted, whose moon rose full
and honeyed behind the lacework of towering pines.
He
said the name to himself and shivered: Missing Mile.
Nothing
crossed his dark room and let himself into the hall. His parents were out
somewhere—a consciousness-raising group, a holistic health class, an expensive
dinner with other people like themselves. Their bedroom door was ajar, and the
room within smelled of perfumed soap and after-shave. The odors struck him as
stinging and chemical.
They
said his room smelled bad.
His
fingers searched the bottom of the dresser drawer, familiar by now, and found
the note at once. Its presence in his hand was comforting, its ink faded, its
edges soft and ragged from all the times he had held it over the past three
years. He slipped it into his pocket. He considered the collection of crystals
on top of the dresser, then picked up the one he liked best, a piece of rose
quartz. He curled his hand around it.
No,
he decided; it was too tainted with Mother’s touch, with her antimagic . After a few minutes of hunting he found Mother’s
cache of emergency money in her jewelry box and took that instead. A hundred
dollars. It wouldn’t last until he got where he was going, but it would help.
After that —Well, after that I’ll find something else, he told himself.
Next
he used the phone. Jack wasn’t home, but Nothing called around and found him at
Skittle’s, the pizza shop downtown where his friends hung out at night. “Can
you drive me to Columbia?” he asked.
“Gas
isn’t free, dude.” Jack was eighteen, had a fake ID that got him served at the
liquor store, and considered himself the lord of the local scene.
“I
can pay you. I have to catch a bus. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Folks
giving you too much shit, huh?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. “Okay, I can
take you tonight. Five bucks for the gas if you got it. Meet me here at
midnight.”
How
far could you ride a Greyhound for ninety-five dollars? Far enough to start
with.
“Thanks,
Jack,” he said. “See you at midnight.”
“Hey,
Laine wants to talk to you,” Jack said, but Nothing was already hanging up.
Back
in his room he huddled under the quilt. It was only nine o’clock, he could
sleep for a couple of hours before walking into town to meet Jack and the
others. But his mind would not shut down. His eyes would not stay closed. Even
the whiskey didn’t help; he realized he was maddeningly sober.
He
rolled over, hugged himself, then felt under his mattress and pulled out a
single-edged razor blade. Gently, lovingly, he pulled the edge across his
wrist. A thin line of crimson welled up, beading and running, bright against
the pale tracery of old scars. Nothing lay under his
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