antibacterial soap, not a crumb or germ to be seen. Dad is in the kitchen doing food inventory, checking off each item on his three-page list. It’s something he does twice a day now that he knows his son is a graham-cracker felon. Between this and charting spaceships and folding laundry, I’m amazed he has time to sleep.
I lift the keys to the Camry off the hook in the hall and sneak into the garage. I sit in the car, slide the seat back about six inches, put the keys in the ignition. I turn the ignition to the point where the accessories turn on. The dashboard lights up, red and white. The gauges settle into the appropriate positions. I smile. There’s a full tank ofgas. I reach up to press the button for the garage door opener, but then I realize that would make too much noise. Dad would hear it for sure. I slip out of the car, pull a lever that disengages the opener, and slowly lift the door until there’s enough clearance to back out the car. It’s dark outside, so I can’t see the local POD, but I know it’s there. That’s good enough for me.
I get back into the Camry, put on the seatbelt to keep it from beeping, check the rearview mirror, slide the gear- shift into reverse, push in the clutch. This is the point where Dad should come running. He should have heard me by now and be yelling at me to get out of the car. But he’s too busy counting cans of tomato paste and jars of pickled artichoke hearts. I put my hand on the key, ready to twist—and I sit there.
The car smells like Mom. I breathe her in, the unmistakable scent of flowers that trails behind her when she walks past me in the hall. Her yoga mat is rolled up in the backseat. There’s a Starbucks gift card and a Target gift certificate in the storage bin, both gifts I gave her for Mother’s Day. There’s a yellow sticky note she put on the visor reminding herself to make reservations for the pizza party. I close my eyes. It would take all of five seconds for me to disappear. It would take Dad hours, maybe days, to figure out that I’m gone.
Then the details hit me. Like, what would Dad do? Would he walk out the door or stay in the house and starve? What would happen to Dutch? What if this, what if that? All these details are making me tired. I’m not inthe mood for this train of thought. I lift my foot off the clutch, pull the keys out of the ignition. I close the garage door, sneak back into the house, and put the keys on the hook.
Dad must have heard something because he calls me to come see what he found. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor with a pile of red-and-white packages piled up at his feet.
“Good news, Josh,” he says, holding up a prize. “-Twenty-four envelopes of dried milk.”
“That’s amazing, Dad,” I say. I turn around and head for my room. He says something about pancakes in the morning, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking that it isn’t the PODs and their death rays. It isn’t the empty refrigerator, or the soon-to-be-starving dog, or the baggies full of water on the kitchen counter.
It’s knowing that today is my birthday, Mom isn’t here, and I can’t check my freaking e-mail.
That’s what’s killing me.
DAY 8: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Hacker
A slamming sound wakes me.
I peer out. Two men are in the garage. My heart skips a beat. One is Hoodie, his face still dark as usual in the shadow of his hood. The other is the tall thin man with the tattoos and shiny head. He helped Hoodie get rid of Speed-Bump Guy. I saw him again the third day smashing windows with a big hammer. He wasn’t even searching the cars, just smashing windows. Back then he was wearing a tank top that showed off the tattoos on his arms. Now he’s wearing a collared blue shirt with long sleeves. It could be a uniform.
They’re standing under the light by the green exit door. Hoodie has a flashlight in one hand and a big hammer in the other. He shines the beam slowly around the garage. It moves to this end and stops. He
I lift the keys to the Camry off the hook in the hall and sneak into the garage. I sit in the car, slide the seat back about six inches, put the keys in the ignition. I turn the ignition to the point where the accessories turn on. The dashboard lights up, red and white. The gauges settle into the appropriate positions. I smile. There’s a full tank ofgas. I reach up to press the button for the garage door opener, but then I realize that would make too much noise. Dad would hear it for sure. I slip out of the car, pull a lever that disengages the opener, and slowly lift the door until there’s enough clearance to back out the car. It’s dark outside, so I can’t see the local POD, but I know it’s there. That’s good enough for me.
I get back into the Camry, put on the seatbelt to keep it from beeping, check the rearview mirror, slide the gear- shift into reverse, push in the clutch. This is the point where Dad should come running. He should have heard me by now and be yelling at me to get out of the car. But he’s too busy counting cans of tomato paste and jars of pickled artichoke hearts. I put my hand on the key, ready to twist—and I sit there.
The car smells like Mom. I breathe her in, the unmistakable scent of flowers that trails behind her when she walks past me in the hall. Her yoga mat is rolled up in the backseat. There’s a Starbucks gift card and a Target gift certificate in the storage bin, both gifts I gave her for Mother’s Day. There’s a yellow sticky note she put on the visor reminding herself to make reservations for the pizza party. I close my eyes. It would take all of five seconds for me to disappear. It would take Dad hours, maybe days, to figure out that I’m gone.
Then the details hit me. Like, what would Dad do? Would he walk out the door or stay in the house and starve? What would happen to Dutch? What if this, what if that? All these details are making me tired. I’m not inthe mood for this train of thought. I lift my foot off the clutch, pull the keys out of the ignition. I close the garage door, sneak back into the house, and put the keys on the hook.
Dad must have heard something because he calls me to come see what he found. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor with a pile of red-and-white packages piled up at his feet.
“Good news, Josh,” he says, holding up a prize. “-Twenty-four envelopes of dried milk.”
“That’s amazing, Dad,” I say. I turn around and head for my room. He says something about pancakes in the morning, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking that it isn’t the PODs and their death rays. It isn’t the empty refrigerator, or the soon-to-be-starving dog, or the baggies full of water on the kitchen counter.
It’s knowing that today is my birthday, Mom isn’t here, and I can’t check my freaking e-mail.
That’s what’s killing me.
DAY 8: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Hacker
A slamming sound wakes me.
I peer out. Two men are in the garage. My heart skips a beat. One is Hoodie, his face still dark as usual in the shadow of his hood. The other is the tall thin man with the tattoos and shiny head. He helped Hoodie get rid of Speed-Bump Guy. I saw him again the third day smashing windows with a big hammer. He wasn’t even searching the cars, just smashing windows. Back then he was wearing a tank top that showed off the tattoos on his arms. Now he’s wearing a collared blue shirt with long sleeves. It could be a uniform.
They’re standing under the light by the green exit door. Hoodie has a flashlight in one hand and a big hammer in the other. He shines the beam slowly around the garage. It moves to this end and stops. He
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