IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT. ALL ACROSS THE TOWN OF Dunston, people were preparing to celebrate the commencement of the weekend by going out to dinner, catching a movie, or attending a local baseball game.
Not me. I got in my pajamas and ate a comforting bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of the television while watching the Food Network. By ten I could barely keep my eyes open, and even six-foot cakes fashioned into the Seven Wonders of the World couldn’t compete with my exhaustion. When I’d decided to walk to the Dunston train station that morning, I was in high spirits and had no way of knowing that I would disembark from the Inspiration Express feeling so exhausted that just having to carry my purse was almost too much to bear. I climbed the stairs and fell into bed, but not before experiencing another pang of annoyance that Trey had borrowed my car without permission.
My bed had never felt so good. I curled up on my side and went right to sleep, but sometime after midnight I woke up, feeling thirsty. I drank from the water cup sitting precariously on a stack of paperbacks on the bedside table and drifted off again.
Fragmented images permeated my dreams. Marlette appeared, carrying a bouquet of white flowers. As he presented them to me, the blooms transformed into small birds. The creatures flew right at me, and I lifted my hands to shield my face, but they darted above my head, seeking escape through the windows in the reception area. Their bodies slammed against the glass, obscuring the light and covering Marlette’s stricken face in shadow.
Someone was calling my name from the bottom of the stairs, but I was too busy trying to open the nearest window to reply. I was able to unlock the window with ease, but no matter how hard I pushed, it would not budge.
The birds became more and more agitated, striking at the glass with their beaks. The shouting from the first floor became louder and shriller, dominating the rest of the dream elements.
My brain struggled to comprehend that the sound was coming from my bedroom. The noise was not a part of my dream. My phone was ringing.
I wasn’t wearing my contacts, so the numbers of the digital clock were a red blur, but I was conscious enough to know that it was too late at night or too early in the morning for a phone call.
As my fingers grasped the receiver, I could only think of two people. My mother. Trey.
“Hello?” My voice was raspy, fearful.
“Ms. Wilkins? This is Officer Griffiths. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but we have your son here at the station and, well, he’s asked that you come down and pick him up.”
It took a moment for his words to break through the fog, but by the time I turned on the table lamp, I was fully awake, my heart pounding against my rib cage. Panic made it nearly impossible to breathe, let alone speak. “What’s happened?”
“Your son has been in an accident,” Griffiths informed me gravely, and I drew in such a sharp breath that I almost missed the next thing he said. “He’s not hurt. A few cuts and bruises, but that’s all. There were three passengers in the vehicle with your son. They are also, luckily, uninjured.” He paused. “However, the vehicle, which I understand is registered in your name, is totaled.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed, my throat constricting again. “What did Trey do?”
Griffiths seemed reluctant to be the bearer of bad news but kept his voice steady as he described how my son had destroyed my only means of transportation. “It would appear that Trey and his friends got together at East Dunston High, drank some beer, and then decided to create an obstacle course on the football field. They broke into the shed containing the outdoor athletic equipment and helped themselves to the football team’s blocking sleds, agility dummies, throwing nets, and a handful of orange cones. They then took turns driving the course at reckless speeds. During your son’s turn, he lost control of the car and slammed into one of the metal supports beneath the bleachers. That section collapsed, effectively crushing the car. Fortunately, your son had already exited the vehicle when this occurred.”
Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer of thanks. My hands were shaking so badly that I had to hold the receiver in a white-knuckled grip, otherwise it would fall to the ground.
Trey! I cried his name to myself and exhaled loudly, but my relief was quickly replaced by fresh anxiety. I could easily picture the destruction created by Trey and his friends. I could see the pristine turf of the football field marred by muddy tire tracks and ruined equipment. And my car. My reliable little red Honda Civic. Flattened beneath pounds of steel bleachers. In the ten years I’d owned it, that trusty vehicle had never broken down, never failed to start, and never left me stranded. It pained me that such a dependable friend had met such a violent end.