He closed his eyes, shook his head and arms, started to walk again, focusing on a point far ahead to try to fight dizziness.
It was annoying, the spinning.
CAROUSEL HORSE CAROUSEL TONGUE
CAROUSEL WHITE FIRE
What carousel?
He had no time for it.
He took off again, overshot the address he was looking for and had to double back, winded, to find the old red trailer house.
But between there and here, there was . . . what would you even call it?
A sculpture park?
A monument?
Hundreds—no, thousands—of rocks formed a pathway that his feet started to follow. To the right, the path divided off toward a rain-collecting pool. To the left, some kind of tunnel, and ahead, more spiraling walkways and stairs and bridges. It felt ancient. Sacrificial.
Like built on bones.
Still.
Red star.
Answers.
He kept walking, then spotted a figure way up back on the slope: a man in a lighted hat holding a chisel.
His father?
Had made this?
Was still making it?
“Dad?” he called out, hearing his uncertainty and confusion, and the figure in the distance turned. Standing on a tall platform of stone, the man took his hat off, dropped it, and squinted into the night.
“Ryan?” Sounded confused.
“No.” Ryan was . . . a boy? A brother? “Lucas.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Now angry.
He started to approach, and Lucas called out, “Not a joke!”
Why would he be joking?
The man inspected him from the top of a ladder-steep set of stone steps—“Oh my god, Lucas!”—and started to run down, and then he slipped and, as if in slow motion, tumbled and bumped and then landed—headfirst—with a dull smack on stone.
Lucas ran to him. “Dad!”
And bent to help him up.
And lifted his head. “Dad!”
And it was all warm and black and all over his hand.
“No.” Lucas stood, backing away. “No-no-no-no-no-no.”
Then, one more try: “Dad!”
Only the hum of the night: distant cars, tree frogs, a far-off motor-boat. The sound of it echoed inside him, his body hollow.
He stood, ran to the house, pounded on the door until it opened.
Ryan.
But not a boy: grown.
“Call an ambulance,” Lucas barked. “NOW!”
“Who the hell—”
“Just do it!”
Then back to the body, ear to mouth.
Hands to chest.
Pumping.
Then, a minute later, Ryan: “Get away from him! What did you do?”
Hands grabbing Lucas by his shirt, hauling him to his feet.
FISTS, ARMS, LEGS,
A PAIN IN HIS JAW.
“It’smeLucas,” between gasps.
They froze.
Ryan stared. “What did you say?”
“It’s me . . . ,” he said again. “Lucas.”
Why would his own brother not recognize him?
Then hands again, pushing him back and back and back and his bones hitting stone and Ryan saying, “Where have you been?”
And their faces inches apart, Lucas’s skull pressed to the wall and spit from Ryan’s mouth in Lucas’s eye when he said, “Where could you possibly”—Lucas now sure his head would crack—“have been?”
AVERY
The phone rang—the clock glowed a red 12:45 a.m.—but Avery wasn’t going to get out of bed for the landline. It was probably just Dad, all messed up about time zones, on day one of a business trip out west.
And anyway, it was spring break.
The plan was to sleep as late as she could and then make her way to a lounge chair by the pool out back and spend the day there, watching boats go by in the bay. She’d practice for auditions next week and maybe invite Sam and Emma over to hang out and swim. Whenever her dad was away on business, Avery liked to pretend that their house was hers alone. With her mom usually sleeping or shopping, it was pretty easy.
Mom probably hadn’t even heard the phone. She was a “deep sleeper.” Right next to her pill bottles.
But then it rang again and again. Avery heard her mom groan and then say, “Hello?”
Then silence.
Then “Oh my god!” like out of a horror movie.
Then more “Oh my gods.”
Avery kicked off her comforter and went to her parents’ room, where her mom was on her knees by the nightstand, crying, saying, “No, not yet. I should go. I should get ready.”
“Mom?” Avery crouched down, bracing for some kind of bad news about her dad.
A plane crash, maybe? Car accident?
Get ready for what?
Mom looked up and smiled and clutched the phone to her heart. “They’re back.”
Avery’s grandparents had just taken a trip up to New York, but that hardly seemed worthy of a wee-hours phone call. “Who’s back?”
“Your brother,” she said. “The others.” Then she pushed past Avery and said, “I’m going to be sick.”
“But—?”
Avery had years ago stopped imagining it would ever happen and certainly hadn’t pictured it happening this way: her holding her mom’s hair as she retched up nothing at all.