forward, still holding the boy by the throat. The boy backpedaled awkwardly. Stony walked him back to the doorway, then up the stairs. When he stumbled, Stony held him upright. His face turned cartoon red.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Stony pushed the boy away from him, into the bodies of the onlookers. Only a few people seemed to understand that there was some sort of fight going on.
Stony led Junie outside. Halfway across the lawn he glanced back. Figures filled the open doorway, staring at him. The wristband boy broke through their ranks and shouted hoarsely.
“We have to hurry,” Stony said to Junie.
She was babbling about being sorry. He didn’t know what she’d taken, but it must have been strong. He opened the back door for her and told her to lie down. Then he jumped into the front. Kwang was still passed out.
He started the car, put it in gear, looked over his shoulder, and pressed on the gas. The car lurched forward, and he slammed on the brakes. Reverse, reverse! He changed gears and backed out. At the end of the driveway he spun the wheel—the wrong way, but he quickly corrected and got the car pointing in the right direction.
He heard shouts, and someone slammed the trunk of the car. Oh God, he thought, please don’t dent Mr. Cho’s Buick.
He put the car in drive and gunned it. He turned at random, zigzagging through the residential streets, sure that they were going to follow him. Then suddenly the street he was on ended at a T-section with a two-lane road. He couldn’t remember if he’d come in this way, or if he was on the other end of the neighborhood. He turned left and floored it, drivingwith one eye on the rearview mirror. So far, no lights were following him.
Junie was crying. He said, “You okay back there?”
She sobbed harder. “Don’t tell Mom.”
Stony knew he’d blown it. Why did he fight with those boys? Why did they have to keep attacking? They’d seen his face. They’d seen him with Junie. And now they’d be calling the police, reporting one of the living dead.
It was an accident, he thought.
A light in the rearview mirror caught his eyes. Headlights, moving up fast. He crested a hill, too fast. The car seemed to float for a moment, not quite airborne, then slammed down on its suspension. Junie shouted.
“Whoa,” Kwang said. “Where are we going?”
“Not now,” Stony said.
A sign flashed past. The junction for Route 59! He knew where he was. The entrance to the road was at the bottom of the hill. He braked, but he had too much mass, too much momentum, and he stomped harder. The car began to skid. Kwang yelled. Stony tried to correct the skid—and then they were spinning.
Kwang slid into the passenger door with a thump. Another thunk might have been Junie hitting the back of the seat. Stony gripped the wheel, willing the car to stop, but the vehicle seemed to move in slow, heavy motion, spinning and traveling at once, like a planet revolving as it glided through its orbit. Through the windshield he saw an open field, then a patch of highway, then a line of trees … and then headlights. Too close, too bright.
The windshield turned white.
CHAPTER SIX
1982
Easterly, Iowa
e’d read that people in car accidents sometimes lost all memory of the event. He wasn’t that lucky. Each moment had been captured as a vivid image, then set running in his head, a series of educational slides. Here is the windshield exploding. Here is the dash, suddenly curled over them, a solid wave. Here is Kwang’s body half swallowed in plastic and metal. The pictures kept coming—click, click, click—so that he could barely see the room in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the closet full of clothes, the half-filled suitcase on the floor. With his working hand he grabbed a jacket from a hanger and threw it into the pile. Still the images flickered, every moment of the crash and after.
Only the sounds, the words, had been erased. He knew that he must
When they reached the top of the stairs, Stony pushed the boy away from him, into the bodies of the onlookers. Only a few people seemed to understand that there was some sort of fight going on.
Stony led Junie outside. Halfway across the lawn he glanced back. Figures filled the open doorway, staring at him. The wristband boy broke through their ranks and shouted hoarsely.
“We have to hurry,” Stony said to Junie.
She was babbling about being sorry. He didn’t know what she’d taken, but it must have been strong. He opened the back door for her and told her to lie down. Then he jumped into the front. Kwang was still passed out.
He started the car, put it in gear, looked over his shoulder, and pressed on the gas. The car lurched forward, and he slammed on the brakes. Reverse, reverse! He changed gears and backed out. At the end of the driveway he spun the wheel—the wrong way, but he quickly corrected and got the car pointing in the right direction.
He heard shouts, and someone slammed the trunk of the car. Oh God, he thought, please don’t dent Mr. Cho’s Buick.
He put the car in drive and gunned it. He turned at random, zigzagging through the residential streets, sure that they were going to follow him. Then suddenly the street he was on ended at a T-section with a two-lane road. He couldn’t remember if he’d come in this way, or if he was on the other end of the neighborhood. He turned left and floored it, drivingwith one eye on the rearview mirror. So far, no lights were following him.
Junie was crying. He said, “You okay back there?”
She sobbed harder. “Don’t tell Mom.”
Stony knew he’d blown it. Why did he fight with those boys? Why did they have to keep attacking? They’d seen his face. They’d seen him with Junie. And now they’d be calling the police, reporting one of the living dead.
It was an accident, he thought.
A light in the rearview mirror caught his eyes. Headlights, moving up fast. He crested a hill, too fast. The car seemed to float for a moment, not quite airborne, then slammed down on its suspension. Junie shouted.
“Whoa,” Kwang said. “Where are we going?”
“Not now,” Stony said.
A sign flashed past. The junction for Route 59! He knew where he was. The entrance to the road was at the bottom of the hill. He braked, but he had too much mass, too much momentum, and he stomped harder. The car began to skid. Kwang yelled. Stony tried to correct the skid—and then they were spinning.
Kwang slid into the passenger door with a thump. Another thunk might have been Junie hitting the back of the seat. Stony gripped the wheel, willing the car to stop, but the vehicle seemed to move in slow, heavy motion, spinning and traveling at once, like a planet revolving as it glided through its orbit. Through the windshield he saw an open field, then a patch of highway, then a line of trees … and then headlights. Too close, too bright.
The windshield turned white.
CHAPTER SIX
1982
Easterly, Iowa
e’d read that people in car accidents sometimes lost all memory of the event. He wasn’t that lucky. Each moment had been captured as a vivid image, then set running in his head, a series of educational slides. Here is the windshield exploding. Here is the dash, suddenly curled over them, a solid wave. Here is Kwang’s body half swallowed in plastic and metal. The pictures kept coming—click, click, click—so that he could barely see the room in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the closet full of clothes, the half-filled suitcase on the floor. With his working hand he grabbed a jacket from a hanger and threw it into the pile. Still the images flickered, every moment of the crash and after.
Only the sounds, the words, had been erased. He knew that he must
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