We weren’t going this—
The odometer, spitting miles.
And Hank realizes that the ache he feels in his leg comes from the fact that he’s been pressing steadily down on the accelerator ever since this conversation began.
“Jeannie—” he starts. She squeezes—five sharp, pink-and-blue varnished points, stretching his jacket thin enough to rip.
“Gimme.”
“The fuck I will!”
Booger is in seventh heaven. “You said the F-word, Daddy!” he screams, slinging his full prepubescent weight against Hank’s other shoulder.
Hank cries out in pain.
It is at exactly this moment that they see Arjay.
* * *
At first, a smear of black at the horizon—darkness on darkness. Then a stick-figure, draped in grey. The grey deepens, cross-hatches. She is an old woman now, whose hair hangs like frosted lead. Her shoulders scrape the sky.
They are twenty feet away. Nineteen.
With every foot, she is more inevitable. Her face smooths from faint stippling to moon-pale, and equally disinterested, features. She raises her head to greet them, brushing her bangs aside.
She smiles.
And their headlights catch her glasses.
God—
(No.)
Abruptly, the world is two white circles. White on white. The dark is gone, and Nothing takes its place.
Hank, Jeannie and Booger freeze, caught in their glare.
They see themselves reflected in her eyes.
* * *
Far away, Myron Sokoluk’s crayon snaps in two.
* * *
Hank swerves, too late. His kick snaps the brakes. They tumble past Arjay in a clumsy arc, and come down hard. Three tires blow simultaneously, hubcaps drawing sparks across the gravel. They strike a handy fence-post and up-end, wavering a moment, before flipping over backward.
The gas tank goes a second later.
It’s all a bit too quick for any last thoughts.
* * *
Back at the gas station, an officer exiting the rest room exclaims as an orange flower blooms against the sky.
* * *
Arjay walks on.