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Wayne opened his mouth to shout for his mother again. The Gasmask Man shook his head. Wayne stared into the black circle of the barrel. It was not terrifying. It was fascinating—like the view from a high peak at the edge of a straight drop.

“No more laughing,” the Gasmask Man said. “No more fun. Quaker Meeting has begun.”

Charlie Manx dropped the car into drive with a heavy clunk. Then he glanced over his shoulder once more.

“Do not mind him,” Manx said. “He is an old spoilsport. I think we can manage to have some fun. I am all but certain of it. In fact, I am about to have some right now.”





Route 3


THE BIKE WOULDN’T START. IT WOULDN’T EVEN MAKE HOPEFUL noises. She jumped up and down on it until her legs were worn out, but not once did it produce the low, deep, throat-clearing sound that suggested the engine was close to turning over. Instead it made a soft puff, like a man blowing a contemptuous sigh through his lips: fffftt.

There was nothing to do except walk.

She bent to the handlebars and began to push. She took three effortful steps, then paused and looked over her shoulder again. Still no bridge. There had never been any bridge.

Vic walked and tried to imagine how she would begin the conversation with Wayne.

Hey, kid, bad news: I shook something loose on the motorcycle, and it got broke. Oh, and I shook something loose in my head, and that got broke, too. I’m going to have to go in for service. When I get settled in the psycho ward, I’ll send you a postcard.

She laughed. It sounded, to her ears, much like a sob.

Wayne. I want more than anything to be the mom you deserve. But I can’t. I can’t do it.

The thought of saying such a thing made her want to puke. Even if it were true, that didn’t make it feel any less cowardly.

Wayne. I hope you know I love you. I hope you know I tried.

The fog drifted across the road and felt as if it were passing right through her. The day had turned unaccountably chilly for early July.

Another voice, strong, clear, masculine, spoke in her thoughts, her father’s voice: Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, kid. You wanted to find the bridge. You went looking for it. That’s why you stopped taking your meds. That’s why you fixed the bike. What are you really scared of? Scared that you’re crazy? Or scared that you aren’t?

Vic often heard her father telling her things she didn’t want to know, although she had spoken to him only a handful of times in the last ten years. She wondered at that, why she still needed the voice of a man who had abandoned her without a look back.

She pushed her bike through the damp chill of the mist. Water beaded up on the weird, waxy surface of the motorcycle jacket. Who knew what it was made out of—some mix of canvas, Teflon, and, presumably, dragon hide.

Vic removed her helmet and hung it off the handlebars, but it wouldn’t stay there, kept dropping into the street. Finally she jammed it back on her head. She pushed, trudging along the side of the road. It crossed her mind she could just leave the bike, come back for it later, but she never seriously entertained the notion. She had walked away from the other bike once, the Raleigh, and had left the best of herself behind with it. When you had a set of wheels that could take you anywhere, you didn’t walk away from it.

Vic wished, for maybe the first time in her life, that she owned a cell phone. Sometimes it seemed as if she were the last person in America not to have one. She pretended it was a way of showing off her freedom from the twenty-first century’s technological snares. In truth, though, she could not bear the idea of having a phone on her all the time, wherever she went. Could not be at ease knowing she might get an urgent call from Christmasland, some dead kid on the line: Hey, Ms. McQueen, did you miss us?!?

She pushed and walked and pushed and walked. She was singing something under her breath. For a long time, she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. She imagined Wayne standing at the window at home, staring out into the rain and fog, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Vic was conscious of—and tried to quash—a gathering feeling of panic out of proportion to the situation. She felt she was needed at home. She had been gone far too long. She was afraid of Wayne’s tears and anger—and at the same time looked forward to them, to seeing him, to knowing that everything was all right. She pushed. She sang.

“Silent night,” she sang, “holy night.”

She heard herself and stopped, but the song continued in her head, plaintive and off-key. All is calm. All is bright.

Vic felt feverish in her motorcycle helmet. Her legs were soaked and cold from the fog, her face was hot and sweaty from her exertions. She wanted to sit down—no, lie down—in the grass, on her back, staring up at the low, curdled sky. But she could see the rental house at last, a dark rectangle on her left, almost featureless in the fog.

The day was dim by now, and she was surprised there were no lights on in the cottage, aside from the wan blue glow of the TV. She supposed she was surprised, too, that Wayne wasn’t in the window watching for her.

But then she heard him.

“Mom!” he shouted. With her helmet on, his voice was muffled, a long way off.

She hung her head. He was fine.

“I’m coming,” she called back wearily.

She had almost reached the foot of the driveway when she heard a car idling. She looked up. Headlights glowed in the fog. The car they belonged to had been pulled over at the side of the road, but the moment she spotted it, it began to move, sliding up onto the blacktop.