the costume to bed. Accused me of really being in love with it instead of her. I said, ‘Is that a problem?’ When chicks decide they’re leaving you, they really fly. At least I got to keep the suit.”
“Did you try it on?”
“Of course. How often do you get the chance? Except those things are pretty binding, and I had to cut a long slit in the tail to go shopping, but it turned out the stores didn’t want my business anyway.”
Onward. North.
Flea markets, RV parks, drive-through liquor barn, civil war reen-actment, sign beside a house selling Peg-Boards, direct-to-you outlets of preformed pools tipped up toward traffic. Sun umbrellas shaded roadside squatters hawking fresh produce, Tupelo honey, jumbo shrimp, salted mullet . . . Into Citrus County. Homosassa city limits. Serge jumped the curb and dashed into a visitors’ center.
Coleman ran after him. “Serge? Serge, where are you? . . .” Peeking through doors. “Serge? . . . There you are.” He looked around. “What is this place?”
A digital camera flashed nonstop. “The Florida Room at Homo-sassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Exhibit honoring my favorite artist, Winslow Homer.” Sprinting around the room, flash, flash, flash. “Painted these watercolors of local nature during vacation in 1904. And look! Here’s a page of the guest register he signed at the Homo-sassa Lodge!” Flash. “I could stay here forever! Back to the car!”
Farther north, Crystal River, swim-with-the-manatees country. Tour boats and dive specials and viewing platforms. Red-white-and-blue manatee statue in front of city hall.
“Coleman, did you know that hundreds of years ago, manatees were thought to be mermaids?”
“By who?”
“Pirates at sea too long.” Bang, bang, bang.
Coleman turned around. “I think the guy in the trunk wants something.”
“Gerbil dispensers are probably empty.”
MIAMI
People in smartly pressed suits came and went through a high-security gate.
Inside the utilitarian government building, an anthill of movement and efficient activity. Phones rang, reports filed.
CNN was on. A repeat of the breaking story on the missing college student found alive in Massachusetts.
A case agent named Ramirez looked up at the TV.
Patrick McKenna’s face filled the screen.
“ . . . I don’t feel like a hero . . . ”
Agent Ramirez closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”
NORTH FLORIDA
A ’73 Challenger entered Levy County.
The tiny hamlet of Inglis. R EDUCED S PEED A HEAD . Serge tried to time a stoplight but lost.
He punched the steering wheel. “Life drains from my body at red lights!”
Coleman popped a can. “I use them to drink beer. Green lights, too.”
“Come on! Come on! . . .” He began unscrewing a thermos. “Hold the phone. I can’t believe it!”
“What?”
Serge pointed up next to the traffic light, where a green-and-white sign marked the cross street.
Coleman squinted. “Follow That Dream Parkway?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, metal. See them all over the roads.”
“No, I mean a religious one. God wanted that light to turn red, like a burning bush. From now on, I’ll never question the apparitions of the red lights.”
“What are you going to do?”
Serge hit the left blinker as the light turned green. “Follow that dream!”
The Challenger skidded around the corner. “There’s the chamber of commerce. They’ll have answers.” He pulled into the parking lot.
“Serge, it’s closed.”
“What the hell? The economy doesn’t stop on Sunday.”
Coleman burped. “Back there, I saw a—”
“Not now.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Maybe I can find answers through the office window with my zoom lens.”
“But, Serge—”
He was out of the car. He came back.
“Answers?”
“Only more questions.” He stuck a key in the ignition.
“Serge, what was that brown sign we passed racing around the corner?”
“Coleman, I’m trying to think!” He stopped and turned. “Did you say brown?
“Did you try it on?”
“Of course. How often do you get the chance? Except those things are pretty binding, and I had to cut a long slit in the tail to go shopping, but it turned out the stores didn’t want my business anyway.”
Onward. North.
Flea markets, RV parks, drive-through liquor barn, civil war reen-actment, sign beside a house selling Peg-Boards, direct-to-you outlets of preformed pools tipped up toward traffic. Sun umbrellas shaded roadside squatters hawking fresh produce, Tupelo honey, jumbo shrimp, salted mullet . . . Into Citrus County. Homosassa city limits. Serge jumped the curb and dashed into a visitors’ center.
Coleman ran after him. “Serge? Serge, where are you? . . .” Peeking through doors. “Serge? . . . There you are.” He looked around. “What is this place?”
A digital camera flashed nonstop. “The Florida Room at Homo-sassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Exhibit honoring my favorite artist, Winslow Homer.” Sprinting around the room, flash, flash, flash. “Painted these watercolors of local nature during vacation in 1904. And look! Here’s a page of the guest register he signed at the Homo-sassa Lodge!” Flash. “I could stay here forever! Back to the car!”
Farther north, Crystal River, swim-with-the-manatees country. Tour boats and dive specials and viewing platforms. Red-white-and-blue manatee statue in front of city hall.
“Coleman, did you know that hundreds of years ago, manatees were thought to be mermaids?”
“By who?”
“Pirates at sea too long.” Bang, bang, bang.
Coleman turned around. “I think the guy in the trunk wants something.”
“Gerbil dispensers are probably empty.”
MIAMI
People in smartly pressed suits came and went through a high-security gate.
Inside the utilitarian government building, an anthill of movement and efficient activity. Phones rang, reports filed.
CNN was on. A repeat of the breaking story on the missing college student found alive in Massachusetts.
A case agent named Ramirez looked up at the TV.
Patrick McKenna’s face filled the screen.
“ . . . I don’t feel like a hero . . . ”
Agent Ramirez closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”
NORTH FLORIDA
A ’73 Challenger entered Levy County.
The tiny hamlet of Inglis. R EDUCED S PEED A HEAD . Serge tried to time a stoplight but lost.
He punched the steering wheel. “Life drains from my body at red lights!”
Coleman popped a can. “I use them to drink beer. Green lights, too.”
“Come on! Come on! . . .” He began unscrewing a thermos. “Hold the phone. I can’t believe it!”
“What?”
Serge pointed up next to the traffic light, where a green-and-white sign marked the cross street.
Coleman squinted. “Follow That Dream Parkway?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, metal. See them all over the roads.”
“No, I mean a religious one. God wanted that light to turn red, like a burning bush. From now on, I’ll never question the apparitions of the red lights.”
“What are you going to do?”
Serge hit the left blinker as the light turned green. “Follow that dream!”
The Challenger skidded around the corner. “There’s the chamber of commerce. They’ll have answers.” He pulled into the parking lot.
“Serge, it’s closed.”
“What the hell? The economy doesn’t stop on Sunday.”
Coleman burped. “Back there, I saw a—”
“Not now.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Maybe I can find answers through the office window with my zoom lens.”
“But, Serge—”
He was out of the car. He came back.
“Answers?”
“Only more questions.” He stuck a key in the ignition.
“Serge, what was that brown sign we passed racing around the corner?”
“Coleman, I’m trying to think!” He stopped and turned. “Did you say brown?
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