“Yeah,” Drew said, then spoke excitedly and with conviction for several minutes about his experiment with the brine shrimp (“Some kids call them sea monkeys, but they’re not like monkeys at all so that’s wrong”) and motor oil.
“Well, that sounds terrific,” Eric said, fingers tapping the edge of his phone absentmindedly.
“The first batch spilled in the garage,” Drew said, looking at his dad’s phone too now, “so I had to start over.”
“I’m sorry about that, buddy,” Eric said, ceasing the tapping and looking at Drew at last.
Devon stared down at her butter-glazed hands. “I’m going to the restroom.”
“How did they spill?” Katie asked Eric, who shrugged.
“It’s okay,” Drew said, reaching out for the clouded decanter of salad oil on the table. “Mom helped me do it over.”
“Mom’s the best,” Eric said, stacking all the plates for the lurking bus boy, placing the utensils in the center on top, ever the former waiter.
“I think the oil will make the shrimp die faster,” Drew said, holding the decanter between his pink fingers, peering at his dad through the filmy oil.
“Makes sense,” Eric said.
Katie could see something dimming on Drew’s face, following his dad’s drifting gaze as he watched Devon return from the ladies’ room.
“That sounds like a good hypothesis,” Katie jumped in. “Look what cars are doing to the environment.”
Drew paused a minute as Devon slid into the booth soundlessly.
“But Dad”—Drew tried again—“they’re at the bottom of the food chain.”
“What are?” Devon asked.
“The shrimp. So if the oil kills them,” Drew said, bringing the salad oil closer to his face for a better look, “everything else goes away too.”
“Everything?” Devon asked.
Drew nodded solemnly. “Everything.”
“Well, maybe not everything,” Eric said, a slight rasp to his voice. “But it sounds great, kiddo. You’ll tear the lid off that science fair.”
Eric’s phone flashed. Coach T.
“Maybe I’ll win,” Drew said.
“You always win, buddy,” Eric replied, rising and picking up his phone. “Be right back.”
“But even if you don’t win,” Katie added, throwing her arm around him, “I say you win.”
“I hope I get first,” Drew said, tilting the decanter so precariously Katie reached out to upright it. “But I know the shrimp will die.”
*
Back at the house, Katie had just begun to confront the kitchen, the counter stained by gritty creep of that morning’s coffee, a scattering of Cheerios mysteriously caught in the stovetop burners, when she heard Drew calling her name from the den.
“It’s on TV,” he said, remote in his hand.
“What is, honey?” Katie asked, Eric and Devon behind her.
“Ryan,” he said, pointing. “Being dead.”
On the screen a stern-faced reporter stood on Ash Road in front of the grappling elm. Despite the harsh lights illuminating him, everything looked so dark.
…The third accident in a year at this location. The latest victim is twenty-five-year-old Ryan Beck, who was struck and killed Saturday night in an apparent hit-and-run.
A photo of Ryan appeared. Chin raised, mouth slightly open, eyes vacant, like he was staring down a hole. He looked no more than sixteen.
“Why are those lines behind him?” Drew asked.
“Christ,” Eric said. “Did they have to use a mug shot?”
“I guess that’s all they had,” Katie said. “I didn’t realize…”
“Is that Ryan?” Devon said quietly, her gym bag slipping from her arm. “Is it him?”
No one spoke for a second, all eyes on the TV. Ryan’s glower.
Behind her, Katie heard a soft thud and realized Devon had left the room. She couldn’t blame her.
…Speculated Beck’s fall down the shoulder and into a ditch is the likely cause of the fatal head and neck injuries. A formal autopsy will confirm…
“What’s a mug shot?” Drew asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Eric said, hand on Drew’s shoulder, turning him. “Time for bed.”
Police are urging possible eyewitnesses to come forward.
Ryan’s image remained on the screen for a second. He looked both baby-faced and sullen, a spray of acne up one cheek like a scar.
A memorial service for Beck will be held tomorrow at noon.
“Are we going to go?” said Drew, looking at Katie. “To remember Ryan?”
“You both have school,” Katie said, fumbling. “So.”
She looked at Eric, who was still watching the TV.
There were no skid marks on the road, the reporter continued, gesturing down to the inky asphalt. Whoever the driver was, he never even set his foot on the brake.
“We’ll figure it out,” Eric said, not moving, not blinking. “Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”
Chapter Seven
Car still up on the lift. I’ll get there as soon as I can. Eric’s text arrived as Katie drove to the funeral, alone. I’m so sorry, K.