Текст книги "Unwind"

Автор книги: Neal Shusterman

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Maybe so, but the way Connor sees it, a point ought to be sharper than that. "How can you pass laws about things that nobody knows?"

"They do it all the time," says Hayden. "That's what law is: educated guesses at right and wrong."

"And what the law says is fine with me," says Emby.

"But if it weren't for the law, would you still believe it?" asks Hayden. "Share with us a a personal opinion, Emby. Prove there's more than snot in that cranium of yours."

"You're wasting your time," says Connor. "There's not."

"Give our congested friend a chance," says Hayden.

They wait. The sound of the engine changes. Connor can feel them begin a slow descent, and wonders if the others can feel it too. Then Emby says, "Unborn babies . . . they suck their thumbs sometimes, right? And they kick. Maybe before that they're just like a bunch of cells or something, but once they kick and suck their thumbs—that's when they've got a soul."

"Good for you!" says Hayden. "An opinion! I knew you could do it."

Connor's head begins to spin. Was it the plane's banking, or a lack of oxygen?

"Connor, fair is fair—Emby found an opinion somewhere in his questionable gray matter. Now you have to give yours."

Connor sighs, not having the strength to fight anymore. He thinks about the baby he and Risa so briefly shared. "If there's such a thing as a soul—and I'm not saying that there is—then it comes when a baby's born into the world. Before that, it's just part of the mother."

"No, it's not!" says Emby.

"Hey—he wanted my opinion, I gave it."

"But it's wrong!"

"You see, Hayden? You see what you started?"

"Yes!" Hayden says excitedly. "It looks like we're about to have our own little Heartland War. Pity it's too dark for us to watch it."

"If you want my opinion, you're both wrong," says Diego. "The way I see it, it's got nothing to do with all of that. It has to do with love."

"Uh-oh," says Hayden. "Diego's getting romantic. I'm moving to the other end or the crate."

"No, I'm serious. A person don't got a soul until that person is loved. If a mother loves her baby—wants her baby—it's got a soul from the moment she knows it's there. The moment you're loved, that's when you got your soul. Punto!"

"Yeah?" says Connor. "Well, what about all those babies that get storked—or all those kids in state schools?"

"They just better hope somebody loves them some day."

Connor snorts dismissively, but in spite of himself, he can't dismiss it entirely, any more than he can dismiss the other things he's heard today. He thinks about his parents. Did they ever love him? Certainly they did when he was little. And just because they stopped, it didn't mean his soul was stolen away . . . although sometimes to admit that it felt like it was. Or at least, part of it died when his parents signed the order.

"Diego, that's really sweet," Hayden says in his best mocking voice. "Maybe you should write greeting cards."

"Maybe I should write them on your face."

Hayden just laughs.

"You always poke fun at other people's opinions," says Connor, "so how come you never give your own?"

"Yeah," says Emby.

"You're always playing people for your own entertainment. Now it's your turn. Entertain us."

"Yeah," says Emby.

"So tell us," says Connor, "in The World According to Hayden, when do we start to live?"

A long silence from Hayden, and then he says quietly, uneasily, "I don't know."

Emby razzes him. "That's not an answer."

But Connor reaches out and grabs Emby's arm, to shut him up—because Emby's wrong. Even though Connor can't see Hayden's face, he can hear the truth of it in his voice. There was no hint of evasion in Hayden's words. This was raw-honesty, void of Hayden's usual flip attitude. It was perhaps the first truly honest thing Connor had ever heard him say. "Yes, it is an answer," Connor says. "Maybe it's the best answer of all. If more people could admit they really don't know, maybe there never would have been a Heartland War."

There's a mechanical jolt beneath them. Emby gasps.

"Landing gear," says Connor.

"Oh, right."

In a few minutes they'll be there, wherever "there" is. Connor tries to guess how long they've been in the air. Ninety minutes? Two hours? There's no telling what direction they've been flying. They could be touching down anywhere. Or maybe Emby was right. Maybe it's piloted by remote control and they're just ditching the whole plane in the ocean to get rid of the evidence. Or what if it's worse than that? What if . . . what if . . .

"What if it's a harvest camp after all?" says Emby. Connor doesn't tell him to shut up this time, because he's thinking the same thing.

It's Diego who answers him. "If it is, then I want my fingers to go to a sculptor. So he can use them to craft something that will last forever."

They all think about that. Hayden is the next to speak.

"If I'm unwound," says Hayden, "I want my eyes to go to a photographer—one who shoots supermodels. That's what I want these eyes to see."

"My lips'll go to a rock star," says Connor.

"These legs are definitely going to the Olympics."

"My ears to an orchestra conductor."

"My stomach to a food critic."

"My biceps to a body builder."

"I wouldn't wish my sinuses on anybody."

And they're all laughing as the plane touches down.

_{28 Risa}

Risa doesn't know what went on in Connor's crate. She assumes guys talk about guy things, whatever those things are. She has no way of knowing that what occurred in his crate was a reenactment of what happened in her own, and in almost every other container on the plane. Fear, misgivings, questions rarely asked, and stories rarely told. The details are different, of course, as are the players, but the gist is the same. No one will discuss these things again, or even acknowledge having ever discussed them at all, but because of it, invisible bonds have been forged. Risa has gotten to know an overweight girl prone to tears, a girl wound up from a week of nicotine withdrawal, and a girl who was a ward of the state, just like her– and also just like Risa, an unwitting victim of budget cuts. Her name is Tina. The others told their names, but Tina's is the only one she remembers.

"We're exactly the same," Tina had said sometime during the flight. "We could be twins." Even though Tina is umber, Risa has to admit that it's true. It's comforting to know there are others in the same situation, but troubling to think her own life is just one of a thousand pirate copies. Sure, the Unwinds from state homes all have different faces, but otherwise, their stories are the same. They even all have the same last name, and she silently curses whoever it was who determined that they should all be named Ward—as if being one weren't enough of a stigma.

The plane touches down, and they wait.

"What's taking so long?" asks the nicotine girl, impatiently. "I can't stand this!"

"Maybe they're moving us to a truck, or another plane," suggests the pudgy girl.

"They'd better not be," says Risa. "There's not enough air in here for another trip."

There's noise—someone's outside the crate. "Shhh!" says Risa. "Listen." Footsteps. Banging, She hears voices, although she can't make out what the voices say. Then someone unlatches a side of the crate and pulls it open a crack. Hot, dry air spills in. The sliver of light from the plane's hold seems bright as sunlight after the hours of darkness.

"Is everyone all right in there?" It's not a Fatigue—Risa can tell right away. The voice is younger.

"We're okay," Risa says. "Can we get out of here?"

"Not yet. We gotta open all the other crates first and get everyone some fresh air." From what Risa can see, this is just a kid her age, maybe even younger. He wears a beige tank top and khaki pants. He's sweaty, and his cheeks are tan. No, not just tan: sunburned.

"Where are we?" Tina asks.

"The graveyard," says the kid, and moves on to the next crate.

* * *

In a few minutes the crate is opened all the way, and they're free. Risa takes a moment to look at her travel companions. The three girls look remarkably different from her memory of them when they first got in. Getting to know someone in blind darkness changes your impression of them. The large girl isn't as overweight as Risa had thought. Tina isn't as tall. The nicotine girl isn't nearly as ugly.

A ramp leads down from the hold, and Risa must wait her turn in a long line of kids leaving their crates. Rumors are already buzzing. Risa tries to listen, and sort the fact from fiction.

"A buncha kids died."

"No way."

"I heard half the kids died."

"No way!"

"Look around you, moron! Does it look like half of us died?"

"Well, I just heard."

"It was just one crateful that died."

"Yeah! Someone says they freaked out and ate each other—you know, like the Donner party."

"No, they just suffocated."

"How do you know?"

"Cause I saw them, man. Right in the crate next to mine. There were five guys in there instead of four, and they all suffocated."

Risa turns to the kid who said that. "Is that really true, or are you just making it up?"

Risa can tell by the unsettled look on his face that he's sincere. "I wouldn't joke about something like that."

Risa looks for Connor, but her view is limited to the few-kids around her in line. She quickly docs the math. There were about sixty kids. Five kids suffocated. One-in-twelve chance it was Connor. No, because the boy who saw into the dead crate said there were guys in there. There were only thirty guys in all. One-in-six chance it was Connor. Had he been one of the last ones in? Had he been shoved into an overpacked crate? She didn't know. She had been so flustered when they were rousted that morning, it was hard enough to keep track of herself, much less anyone else. Please, God, let it not be Connor. Let it not be Connor. Her last words to him had been angry ones. Even though he had saved her from Roland, she was furious at him. "Get out of here!" she had screamed. She couldn't bear the thought of his dying with those being her last words. She couldn't bear the thought of his dying, period.

She bangs her head on the low opening of the cargo hold on her way out.

"Watch your head," says one of the kids in charge.

"Yeah, thanks," says Risa. He smirks at her. This kid is also dressed in Army clothes, but he's too scrawny to be a military boeuf. "What's with the clothes?"

"Army surplus," he says. "Stolen clothes for stolen souls."

Outside the hold, the light of day is blinding, and the heat hits Risa like a furnace. The ramp beneath her slopes to the ground, and she has to stare at her feet, squinting to keep from stumbling. By the time she reaches the ground, her eyes have adjusted enough to take in their surroundings. All around them, everywhere, are airplanes, but there's no sign of an airport—just the planes, row after row, for as far as the eye can see. Many are from airlines that no longer exist. She turns to look at the jet they just arrived on. It carries the logo of FedEx, but this craft is a sorry specimen. It seems about ready for the junkyard. Or, thinks Risa, the graveyard . . .

"This is nuts," one kid beside Risa grumbles. "It's not like this plane is invisible. They're going to know exactly where the plane has gone. We're going to be tracked here!"

"Don't you get it?" says Risa. "That jet was just decommissioned. That's how they do it. They wait for a decommissioned plane, then load us in as cargo. The plane was coming here anyway, so no one's going to miss it."

The jets rest on a barren hardpan of maroon earth. Distant red mountains poke up from the ground. They are somewhere in the Southwest.

There's a row of port-o-potties that already have anxious lines. The kids shepherding them count heads and try to maintain order in the disoriented group. One of them has a megaphone.

"Please remain under the wing if you're not using the latrine," he announces. "You made it this far, we don't want you to die of sunstroke."

Now that everyone's out of the plane, Risa desperately searches the crowd until she finally finds Connor. Thank God! She wants to go to him, but remembers that they've officially ended their fake romance. With two dozen kids between them, they briefly make eye contact, and exchange a secret nod. That nod says everything. It says that what happened between them yesterday is history; today, everything starts fresh.

Then she sees Roland there as well. He meets her eye and gives her a grin. That grin says things too. She looks away, wishing he had been in the suffocation crate. She considers feeling guilty for such a nasty wish, then realizes that she doesn't feel guilty for wishing it at all.

A golf cart comes rolling down the rows of airliners, kicking up a plume of red dust in its wake. The driver is a kid. The passenger is clearly military. Not military surplus, either—he's the real thing. Instead of green or khaki, he's in navy blue. He seems accustomed to the heat—even in his hot uniform, he doesn't appear to sweat. The cart stops before the gathered hoard of juvenile refugees. The driver steps out first, and joins the four kids who had been leading them. The loud kid raises his megaphone. "May I have your attention! The Admiral is about to address you. If you know what's good for you, you'll listen."

The man steps out of the golf cart. The kid offers him the megaphone, but he waves it away. His voice needs no amplification. "I'd like to be the first to welcome you to the graveyard."

The Admiral is well into his sixties, and his face is full of scars. Only now does Risa realize that his uniform is one from the war. She can't recall whether these were the colors of the pro-life or pro-choice forces, but then, it doesn't really matter. Both sides lost.

"This will be your home until you turn eighteen or we procure a permanent sponsor willing to falsify your identification. Make no mistake about it: What we do here is highly illegal, but that does not mean we don't follow the rule of law. My law."

He pauses, making eye contact with as many kids as he can. Perhaps it's his goal to memorize each and every face before his speech is done. His eyes are sharp, his focus intense. Risa believes he can know each of them just by a single sustained glance. It's intimidating and reassuring at the same time. No one will fall between the cracks in the Admiral's world.

"All of you were marked for unwinding yet managed to escape, and, through the help of my many associates, you have found your way here. I don't care who you were. I don't care who you'll be when you leave here. All I care about is who you are while you're here—and while you're here, you will do what is expected of you."

A hand goes up in the crowd. It's Connor. Risa wishes it wasn't. The Admiral takes time to study Connor's face before saying, "Yes?"

"So . . . who are you, exactly?"

"My name is my business. Suffice it to say that I am a former admiral of the United States Navy." And then he grinned. "But now you could say I'm a fish out of water. The current political climate led to my resignation. The law said it was my job to look the other way, but I did not. I will not." Then he turns to the crowd and says loudly, "No one gets unwound on my watch."

Cheers from all those assembled, including the khaki kids that were already a part of his little army. The Admiral gives a wide grin. His smile shows a set of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. It's a strange disconnect, because, while his teeth are sparkling, the rest of him seems worn down to the nub.

"We are a community here. You will learn the rules and you will follow them, or you will face the consequences, as in any society. This is not a democracy; it is a dictatorship. I am your dictator. This is a matter of necessity. It is the most effective way to keep you hidden, healthy, and whole." Then he gives that smile again. "I like to believe I am a benevolent dictator, but you can make that judgment for yourselves."

By now, his gaze has traveled over the entire crowd. All of them feel as though they have been scanned like groceries at a checkout counter. Scanned and processed.

"Tonight you will all sleep in the newcomers' quarters. Tomorrow your skills will be assessed, and you'll be assigned to your permanent squads. Congratulations. You've arrived!"

He takes a moment to let that last thought sink in, then he returns to his golf cart and is spirited off, with the same cloud of red dust billowing behind him.

"Is there still time to get back into the crate?" some wiseguy says. A bunch of kids laugh.

"All right, listen up," yells the megaphone kid. "We're going to walk you to the supply jet, where you'll get clothes, rations, and everything else you'll need." They are quick to find out that the megaphone kid has earned the nickname "Amp." As for the Admiral's driver, he's been stuck with "Jeeves."

"It's a long walk," Amp says. "If anyone can't make it, let us know. Anyone who needs water now, raise your hand."

Nearly every hand goes up.

"All right, line up here."

Risa lines up along with the rest of them. There's buzzing and whispering from the line of kids, but it's nowhere near as desperate as it had been in the weeks past. Now, it's more like the buzz of kids in a school lunch line.

As they're led off to be clothed and fed, the jet that brought them here is towed to its final resting place in the massive junkyard. Only now does Risa take a deep breath and release it, along with a month's worth of tension. Only now does she allow herself the wonderful luxury of hope.

_{29 Lev}

More than a thousand miles away, Lev is about to arrive as well. The destination, however, is not his own: It's Cyrus Finch's. Joplin, Missouri. "Home of the Joplin High Eagles– reigning state champions in girls' basketball," CyFi says.

"You know a lot about the place."

"I don't know anything about it," CyFi grumbles. "He knows. Or knew. Or whatever."

Their journey has gotten no easier. Sure, they have money now, thanks to Lev's "deal" at that pawnshop, but the money's only good for buying food. It can't get them train tickets, or even bus tickets, because there's nothing more suspicious than underage kids paying their own fare.

For all intents and purposes, things between Lev and CyFi are the same, with one major, unspoken exception. CyFi might still be playing the role of leader, but it's Lev who is now in charge. There's a guilty pleasure in knowing that CyFi would fall apart if Lev weren't there to hold him together.

With Joplin only twenty miles away, Cy's twitching gets bad enough that even walking is difficult for him. It's more than just twitching now—it's a shuddering that wracks his body like a seizure, leaving him shivering. Lev offers him his jacket, but Cy just swats him away. "I ain't cold! It's not about bein' cold! It's about being wrong. It's about there being oil and water in this brain of mine."

Exactly what Cy must do when he gets to Joplin is a mystery to Lev—and now he realizes that Cy doesn't know either. Whatever this kid—or this bit of kid—in his head is compelling him to do, it's completely beyond Cy's understanding. Lev can only hope that it's something purposeful, and not something destructive . . . although Lev can't help but suspect that whatever the kid wants, it's bad. Really bad.

"Why are you still with me, Fry?" CyFi asks after one of his body-shaking seizures. "Any sane dude woulda taken off days ago.

"Who says I'm sane?"

"Oh, you're sane, Fry. You're so sane, you scare me. You're so sane, it's insane."

Lev thinks for a while. He wants to give Cyrus a real answer, not just something that chases away the question. "I'm staying," Lev says slowly, "because someone has to witness what happens in Joplin. Someone's got to understand why you did it. Whatever it is."

"Yeah," says CyFi. "I need a witness. That's it."

“You're like a salmon swimming upstream," Lev offers. "It's inside you to do it. And it's inside me to help you get there."

"Salmon." Cy looks thoughtful. "I once saw this poster about a salmon. It was jumping up this waterfall, see? But there was a bear at the top, and the fish, it was jumping right into the bear's mouth. The caption beneath– it was supposed to be funny—said, The journey of a thousand miles sometimes ends very, very badly. "

"There's no bear in Joplin," Lev tells him. He doesn't try to cheer Cy up with any more analogies, because Cy's so smart, he can find a way to make anything sound bad. One hundred and  thirty IQ points all focused on cooking up doom. Lev can't hope to compete with that.

The days go by, mile by mile, town by town, until the afternoon they pass a sign that says, NOW ENTERING JOPLIN POPULATION 45,504.

_{30 Cy-Ty}

There is no peace in CyFi's his head. The Fry doesn't know-how bad it is. The Fry doesn't know how the feelings crash over him like storm-driven waves pounding a failing seawall. The wall is going to collapse soon, and when it does, Cy will lose it. He'll lose everything. His mind will spill out of his ears and down the drains of the streets of Joplin. He knows it.

Then he sees the sign. NOW ENTERING JOPLIN. His heart is his own, but it pounds in his chest, threatening to burst—and wouldn't that be a fine thing? They'd rush him to a hospital, give him someone else's ticker, and he'd have that kid to deal with too.

This boy in the corner of his head doesn't talk to him in words. He feels. He emotes. He doesn't understand that he's only a part of another kid. It's like how in a dream you know some things, and other things you should know, but you don't. This kid—he knows where he is, but he doesn't know he's not all here. He doesn't know he's part of someone else now. He keeps looking for things in Cyrus's head that just aren't there. Memories. Connections. He keeps looking for words, but Cyrus's brain codes words differently. And so the kid hurls out anger. Terror. Grief. Waves pounding the wall, and beneath it all, there's a current tugging Cy forward. Something must be done here.   Only the kid knows what it is.

"Would it help to have a map?" asks the Fry. The question gets Cy mad. "Map won't help me," he says. "I need to see stuff. I need to be places. A map is just a map. It ain't being there."

They stand at a corner on the outskirts of Joplin. It's like divining for water. Nothing looks familiar. "He doesn't know this place," Cy says. "Let's try another street."

Block after block, intersection after intersection, it's the same. Nothing. Joplin is a small town, but not so small that a person could know all of it. Then, at last they get to a main street. There are shops and restaurants up and down the road. It's just like any other town this size, but—

"Wait!"

"What is it?"

"He knows this street," says Cy. "There! That ice cream shop. I can taste pumpkin ice cream. I hate pumpkin ice cream."

"I'll bet he didn't."

Cyrus nods. "It was his favorite. The loser." He points a finger at the ice cream shop and slowly swings his arm to the left. "He comes walking from that direction. . . ." He swings his arm to the right. "And when he's done, he goes that way."

"So, do we track where he comes from, or where he goes?"

Cy chooses to go left but finds himself at Joplin High, home of the Eagles. He gets an image of a sword, and instantly knows. "Fencing. The kid was on the fencing team here."

"Swords are shiny," the Fry notes. Cy would throw him a dirty look if he weren't right on target. Swords are, indeed, shiny. He wonders if the kid ever stole swords, and realizes that, yes, he probably did. Stealing the swords of opposing teams is a time-honored tradition of fencing.

"This way," says the Fry, taking the lead. "He must have gone from school, to the ice cream shop, to home. Home is where we're going, right?"

The answer comes to Cy as an urge deep in his brain that shoots straight to his gut. Salmon? More like a swordfish Misting on a line, and that line is pulling him relentlessly toward . . . "Home," says Cy. "Right."

It's twilight now. Kids are out in the street; half the cars have headlights on. As far as anyone knows, they're just two neighborhood kids, headed wherever neighborhood kids go. No one seems to notice them. But there's a police car a block away. It was parked, but now it begins moving.

They pass the ice cream parlor, and as they do, Cyrus can feel the change inside him. It's in his walk, and in the way he holds himself. It's in all the tension points of his face: They're changing. His eyebrows lower, his jaw opens slightly. I'm not myself. That other kid is taking over. Should Cy let it happen, or should he fight it? But he knows it's already past the point of fighting. The only way to finish this is to let it happen.

"Cy," says the kid next to him.

Cy looks at him, and although part of him knows it's just Lev, another part of him panics. He instantly knows why. He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to convince the kid in his head that the Fry is a friend, not a threat. The kid seems to get it, and his panic drops a notch.

Cy reaches a corner and turns left like he's done it a hundred times. The rest of him shudders as he tries to keep up with his determined temporal lobe. Now a feeling comes on him. Nervous, annoyed. He knows he must find a way to translate it into words.

"I'm gonna be late. They're gonna be so mad. They're always so mad."

"Late for what?"

"Dinner. They gotta eat it right on time, or I get hell for it. They could eat it without me, but they won't. They don't. They just stew. And the food goes cold. And it's my fault, my fault, always my fault. So I gotta sit there and they ask me how was my day? Fine. What did I learn? Nothing. What did I do wrong this time? Everything." It's not his voice. It's his vocal chords, but it's not his voice coming out of them. Same tones, but different inflections. A different accent. Like the way he might have talked if he came from Joplin, home of the Eagles.

As they turn another corner, Cy catches sight of that cop car again. It's behind them, following slowly. No mistake about it: It's following. And that's not all. There's another police car up ahead, but that one's just waiting in front of a house. His house. My house. Cy is the salmon after all, and that police car is the bear. But even so, he can't stop. He's got to get to that house or die trying.

As he nears the front walk, two men get out of a familiar Toyota parked across the street. It's the dads. They look at him, relief in their faces, but also pain. So they knew where he was coming. They must have known all along.

"Cyrus," one of them calls. He wants to run to them. He wants them to just take him home, but he stops himself. He can't go home. Not yet. They both stride toward him, getting in his path, but smart enough not to get in his face.

"I gotta do this," he says in a voice he knows isn't his at all.

That's when the police leap from their cars and grab him. They're too strong for him to fight them off, so he looks at the dads. "I gotta do this," he says again. "Don't be the bear."

They look at each other, not understanding what he means—but then, maybe they do, because they step aside and say to the cops, "Let him go."

"This is Lev," Cyrus says, amazed that the Fry is willing to risk his own safety to stand by Cy now. "Nobody bothers him, either." The dads take a brief moment to acknowledge the Fry, but quickly return their attention to Cyrus.

The cops frisk Cy to make sure he has no weapon, and, satisfied, they let him go on toward the house. But there is a weapon. It's something sharp and heavy. Right now it's just in a corner of his mind, but in a few moments it won't be. And now Cy's scared, but he can't stop.

There's a police officer at the front door talking in hushed tones to a man and a woman standing at the threshold. They glance nervously at Cy.

The part of Cy that isn't Cy knows this middle-aged couple so well, he's hit by a lightning bolt of emotions so violent he feels like he'll incinerate.

As he walks toward the door, the flagstone path seems to undulate beneath his feet like a fun-house floor. Then finally he's standing before them. The couple look scared—horrified. Part of him is happy at that, part of him sad, and part of him wishes he could be anyplace else in the world, but he no longer knows which part is which.

He opens his mouth to speak, trying to translate the feelings into words.

"Give it!" he demands, "Give it to me, Mom. Give it to me, Dad."

The woman covers her mouth and turns away. She presses out tears like she's a sponge in a fist.

"Tyler?" says the man. "Tyler, is that you?"

It's the first time Cyrus has a name to go with that part of him. Tyler. Yes. I'm Cyrus, but I'm also Tyler. I'm Cy-Ty.

"Hurry!" Cy-Ty says. "Give it to me—I need it now!"

"What? Tyler," says the woman through her tears, "What do you want from us?"

Cy-Ty tries to say it, but he can't get the word. He can't even get the image straight. It's a thing. A weapon. Still the image won't come, but the action does. He's miming something. He leans forward, puts one arm in front of the other. He's holding something long, angling it down. He thrusts both arms lower. And now he knows it's not a weapon he seeks, it's a tool. Because he understands the action he's miming. He's digging.

"Shovel!" he says with a breath of relief. "I need the shovel."

The man and woman look at each other. The policeman beside them nods, and the man says, "It's out in the shed."

Cy-Ty makes a beeline through the house and out the back door with everyone following behind him: the couple, the cops, the dads, and the Fry. He heads straight for the shed, grabs the shovel—he knew exactly where it was—and heads toward a corner of the yard, where some twigs stick out of the ground.

The twigs have been tied to form lopsided crosses.

Cy-Ty knows this corner of the yard. He feels this place in his gut. This is where he buried his pets. He doesn't know their names, or even what kind of animals they were, but he suspects one of them was an Irish setter. He gets images of what happened to each of them. One met up with a pack of wild dogs. Another with a bus. The third, old age. He takes the shovel and thrusts it into the ground, but not near any of their graves. He'd never disturb them. Never. Instead, he presses his shovel into the soft earth two yards behind the graves.