have heard Kwang’s voice first, but he couldn’t remember what his friend had been saying. Something about the pain, probably. Or an appeal to God. Stony tried to open the driver’s-side door, but there was something wrong with his left arm. He twisted in his seat, managed to pull the handle, and half fell, half crawled out of the car.
The vehicle that had struck them—a blue pickup—sat a dozen yards away, its grille crumpled, its windshield crazed with white impact webs. A man with silver hair stared at him through the starry glass. Stony couldn’t tell if he was injured.
He turned to the back door of Mr. Cho’s car. He couldn’t see Junie, and thought that she must be on the floor. He yanked at the door with the arm that was still working. The metal squealed and popped, and the door opened. The backseat was empty, the floor was empty.
He could not process the impossibility of it. She was gone. Raptured.
Then he noticed that the rear window had been blown out. They’d been hit in the front, but the car had been spinning. Had she been thrown clear? He began to call her name. He walked to the trees beside the highway, crossed back to the fields on the other side, then back again.
A car stopped, then another. At some point someone must have driven to find a phone, or neighbors had called to report the accident, because an ambulance arrived, and then a fire engine. The banks of strobing lights helped him find her.
She was curled up under a tree, twenty or twenty-five feet deep in the woods. He knelt next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move except to blink at the ground a few inches from her face. Her cheeks and forehead were puffy and white, as if she were suffering from some allergic reaction. He remembered talking to her, pouring words over her, but he could not remember what he said.
Someone had spotted them under the trees. Flashlight beams lit up the surrounding grass and leaves. Perhaps they called out to him.
Junie was talking, too, or trying to: Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. He bent over her and felt her breath on his skin. He must have asked her what she was saying; that wasthe natural thing to do. He flattened onto his belly, his forehead touching hers. She inhaled, a quick sharp breath, and said, “Run.”
An orange-jacketed man, a fireman or paramedic, appeared next to him. Stony didn’t remember what he said; he was studying his sister’s face.
“Run,” she said again. “Run. Run. Run.”
But he failed her again. He didn’t move—couldn’t move—away from her. And then the man in the orange jacket played his light across Stony’s face. He started to say something, and then stepped back as if he’d been punched. He called for other men in a thin, barely controlled voice, but the panic was rising in him like a siren, clear enough even for Stony to hear. Maybe he knew what he was seeing. Maybe he wasn’t sure. But finally, finally, Stony obeyed his sister.
He closed the half-filled suitcase with his good hand. He was forgetting things, he knew. He’d been imagining this moment for years, picturing it as clearly as the escape from the Deadtown prison in book 5 of the Jack Gore series,
Bad Brains
. But now that the moment was upon him he realized he hadn’t prepared at all. There was no one here to help him. When he’d made it back to the house, after twenty minutes of frantic running through pitch-black fields, he’d found the lights on in the kitchen and living room, but his mother gone. A quick check of the driveway confirmed that she’d taken the car.
They must have called her. She’d be at the hospital, with Junie. And soon enough, they’d be coming for him.
He opened the trapdoor to the basement, tossed the suitcase below, and jumped down. He went to one of the shelves and reached up to bring down a thick book. When he was ten he’d stolen an idea from the Hardy Boys and carved a hiding place out of the pages. Inside was $220. His life
The vehicle that had struck them—a blue pickup—sat a dozen yards away, its grille crumpled, its windshield crazed with white impact webs. A man with silver hair stared at him through the starry glass. Stony couldn’t tell if he was injured.
He turned to the back door of Mr. Cho’s car. He couldn’t see Junie, and thought that she must be on the floor. He yanked at the door with the arm that was still working. The metal squealed and popped, and the door opened. The backseat was empty, the floor was empty.
He could not process the impossibility of it. She was gone. Raptured.
Then he noticed that the rear window had been blown out. They’d been hit in the front, but the car had been spinning. Had she been thrown clear? He began to call her name. He walked to the trees beside the highway, crossed back to the fields on the other side, then back again.
A car stopped, then another. At some point someone must have driven to find a phone, or neighbors had called to report the accident, because an ambulance arrived, and then a fire engine. The banks of strobing lights helped him find her.
She was curled up under a tree, twenty or twenty-five feet deep in the woods. He knelt next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move except to blink at the ground a few inches from her face. Her cheeks and forehead were puffy and white, as if she were suffering from some allergic reaction. He remembered talking to her, pouring words over her, but he could not remember what he said.
Someone had spotted them under the trees. Flashlight beams lit up the surrounding grass and leaves. Perhaps they called out to him.
Junie was talking, too, or trying to: Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. He bent over her and felt her breath on his skin. He must have asked her what she was saying; that wasthe natural thing to do. He flattened onto his belly, his forehead touching hers. She inhaled, a quick sharp breath, and said, “Run.”
An orange-jacketed man, a fireman or paramedic, appeared next to him. Stony didn’t remember what he said; he was studying his sister’s face.
“Run,” she said again. “Run. Run. Run.”
But he failed her again. He didn’t move—couldn’t move—away from her. And then the man in the orange jacket played his light across Stony’s face. He started to say something, and then stepped back as if he’d been punched. He called for other men in a thin, barely controlled voice, but the panic was rising in him like a siren, clear enough even for Stony to hear. Maybe he knew what he was seeing. Maybe he wasn’t sure. But finally, finally, Stony obeyed his sister.
He closed the half-filled suitcase with his good hand. He was forgetting things, he knew. He’d been imagining this moment for years, picturing it as clearly as the escape from the Deadtown prison in book 5 of the Jack Gore series,
Bad Brains
. But now that the moment was upon him he realized he hadn’t prepared at all. There was no one here to help him. When he’d made it back to the house, after twenty minutes of frantic running through pitch-black fields, he’d found the lights on in the kitchen and living room, but his mother gone. A quick check of the driveway confirmed that she’d taken the car.
They must have called her. She’d be at the hospital, with Junie. And soon enough, they’d be coming for him.
He opened the trapdoor to the basement, tossed the suitcase below, and jumped down. He went to one of the shelves and reached up to bring down a thick book. When he was ten he’d stolen an idea from the Hardy Boys and carved a hiding place out of the pages. Inside was $220. His life
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