armrest. They go into the plastic bag.
The next car is a VW Jetta with four passenger windows, three tinted and one smashed. The trunk is crushed like an empty beer can. I figure Nervous Guy did it. The license plate fell on the ground. It reads: 150 IQ. A bumper sticker on the broken rear window says:
Obey gravity—it’s the law.
I’m guessing a college student, probably a guy.
I’m wrong.
There’s a body inside. It’s an old woman in the back- seat. She’s still wearing the seatbelt. Her hair is silver, short and curly like a poodle’s. At first I think she’s alive because her eyes are open, but it takes all of two seconds to figure out she isn’t. There’s a thick line of dried blood coming from her left ear. Her face is grayish white and puffy. Her mouth is open just a crack, showing the tip of a gray tongue. Her eyes are wide with a glassy stare like a department-store mannequin.
The smell hits me.
Like at the river on a hot summer day when you find a dead fish washed up between the rocks. I don’t know why I didn’t smell it first thing. I’d be throwing up if I had more in my stomach than eight French fries.
I turn to leave, but then I notice something that stops me. She’s wearing one of those old-lady dresses, the long, boxy kind with a flowery print and pockets big enough to hold a football. One of the pockets has a rounded lump in it; I’m guessing it’s a water bottle. I reach in through the window and open the driver’s door. I hold my breath, step into the car, climb back between the seats. Her left arm is blocking the pocket. There’s no choice—I have to move it. I take a quick breath, touch her hand. It’s cold. The nails are red and long, her fingers curled as if she’s holding an invisible glass. The skin doesn’t feel right, almost rubbery like a doll’s. The muscles are stiff, which surprises me. My stomach lurches. I slowly lift her hand and put it on her lap. I take another breath and reach into her pocket. I pull out the bottle of water, nearly full. I reach in again. A Nestlé candy bar, half-eaten. I reach in one more time. A crossword puzzle book about soap operas with a pen clipped to the cover.
I stuff the water, the candy, and the pen into my pockets. Already I’m feeling good about my trade. I leave the book. Then I wonder, how will she finish the puzzles without her pen? It’s stupid, I know, but I put it back.
A voice tells me I should close her eyes. I’ve seen it done on television, so I reach out—but I just can’t do it. My brain won’t let me touch her cold skin one moretime. I leave her eyes open to stare at the spot of blood on the back of the beige headrest.
“Thanks for the water,” I say, and crawl out of the car.
I should move on to the next car, but my whole body is shaking. I feel like that smell is clinging to my skin. I need to get away. It’s time to go back to my sleeping bag on Level 1. Maybe Mom is waiting for me.
Or maybe someone else. Someone with a knife.
I check on Cassie. She’s curled up on the seat, sleeping. I know I have to do it, so I might as well do it now. I quietly squeeze another tube of ketchup on the seat and leave the door open a crack so she’s able to get out.
I start walking. It feels good to be moving away from those glassy eyes, that smell. But I only get to Level 2 before I have to stop. My eyes are leaking so bad I can hardly see. I can’t afford to lose this much water. That same voice, the one from the car, is telling me Cassie will wake up and she’ll be alone. She’s too small and scared to take care of herself. And what if Hoodie finds her? I’ll let her go when she gets a little older. So I turn around. There’s enough food and water in this garage for both of us.
I just have to go out and find it.
DAY 8: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Full Tank of Gas
Dinner is done.
The smell of canned chili, burned as usual, hovers in the air. The dishes are clean and stacked. The counter is wiped down with
The next car is a VW Jetta with four passenger windows, three tinted and one smashed. The trunk is crushed like an empty beer can. I figure Nervous Guy did it. The license plate fell on the ground. It reads: 150 IQ. A bumper sticker on the broken rear window says:
Obey gravity—it’s the law.
I’m guessing a college student, probably a guy.
I’m wrong.
There’s a body inside. It’s an old woman in the back- seat. She’s still wearing the seatbelt. Her hair is silver, short and curly like a poodle’s. At first I think she’s alive because her eyes are open, but it takes all of two seconds to figure out she isn’t. There’s a thick line of dried blood coming from her left ear. Her face is grayish white and puffy. Her mouth is open just a crack, showing the tip of a gray tongue. Her eyes are wide with a glassy stare like a department-store mannequin.
The smell hits me.
Like at the river on a hot summer day when you find a dead fish washed up between the rocks. I don’t know why I didn’t smell it first thing. I’d be throwing up if I had more in my stomach than eight French fries.
I turn to leave, but then I notice something that stops me. She’s wearing one of those old-lady dresses, the long, boxy kind with a flowery print and pockets big enough to hold a football. One of the pockets has a rounded lump in it; I’m guessing it’s a water bottle. I reach in through the window and open the driver’s door. I hold my breath, step into the car, climb back between the seats. Her left arm is blocking the pocket. There’s no choice—I have to move it. I take a quick breath, touch her hand. It’s cold. The nails are red and long, her fingers curled as if she’s holding an invisible glass. The skin doesn’t feel right, almost rubbery like a doll’s. The muscles are stiff, which surprises me. My stomach lurches. I slowly lift her hand and put it on her lap. I take another breath and reach into her pocket. I pull out the bottle of water, nearly full. I reach in again. A Nestlé candy bar, half-eaten. I reach in one more time. A crossword puzzle book about soap operas with a pen clipped to the cover.
I stuff the water, the candy, and the pen into my pockets. Already I’m feeling good about my trade. I leave the book. Then I wonder, how will she finish the puzzles without her pen? It’s stupid, I know, but I put it back.
A voice tells me I should close her eyes. I’ve seen it done on television, so I reach out—but I just can’t do it. My brain won’t let me touch her cold skin one moretime. I leave her eyes open to stare at the spot of blood on the back of the beige headrest.
“Thanks for the water,” I say, and crawl out of the car.
I should move on to the next car, but my whole body is shaking. I feel like that smell is clinging to my skin. I need to get away. It’s time to go back to my sleeping bag on Level 1. Maybe Mom is waiting for me.
Or maybe someone else. Someone with a knife.
I check on Cassie. She’s curled up on the seat, sleeping. I know I have to do it, so I might as well do it now. I quietly squeeze another tube of ketchup on the seat and leave the door open a crack so she’s able to get out.
I start walking. It feels good to be moving away from those glassy eyes, that smell. But I only get to Level 2 before I have to stop. My eyes are leaking so bad I can hardly see. I can’t afford to lose this much water. That same voice, the one from the car, is telling me Cassie will wake up and she’ll be alone. She’s too small and scared to take care of herself. And what if Hoodie finds her? I’ll let her go when she gets a little older. So I turn around. There’s enough food and water in this garage for both of us.
I just have to go out and find it.
DAY 8: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Full Tank of Gas
Dinner is done.
The smell of canned chili, burned as usual, hovers in the air. The dishes are clean and stacked. The counter is wiped down with
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