کتاب 09-09

9

She sat on a sandy bank, her shoulders resting against the grooved stone wall of the tomb. The Fireman sat next to her. Somehow they had wound up holding hands. He had brought the radio outside and it was tuned to the FM. A choir chanted a ringing, mournful plainsong. Stars gritted the night.

Harper had the light, flowing sensation of being just mildly drunk. She was relaxed and it felt good to put her head on his shoulder.

“What’s Renée doing?” she asked.

“Still inside. Talking to her man. Going over the things she loved best about him. And what they would’ve done if they had more time.”

“The kids?”

“Walked back to the garage. I found a bag of marshmallows. They’re going to roast them, I believe.”

“Do you think it’s . . . safe? For them to cook marshmallows?”

“Well, when you consider all they’ve been through, I don’t think there’s much to fear from hot marshmallows. Worst-case scenario, someone burns the roof of their mouth.”

“I was thinking of what they might see in the fire.”

“Oh.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t think she’d reveal herself to them casually. And perhaps Sarah would like to see them. We aren’t the only ones who feel sick about all the good things that are gone now. We aren’t the only ones who need to grieve.”

She ran her thumb over his knuckles, squeezed his hand.

“I haven’t been so drunk on the Bright . . . well, I haven’t even been part of the Bright in six months.” He sighed. “I haven’t really needed the protective benefits of harmony since I learned to communicate with the spore directly. I forgot how good it feels. Even when what’s being shared is painful, it’s a good pain.”

Had they really shared memories and thoughts, after all? Harper was of two minds about it. The kids of Camp Wyndham had always believed the spore was a kind of network, a sort of hive mind worn right on the skin, an organic web that anyone who was infected could plug into. There wasn’t any doubt that it could carry ideas and feelings. Then again, when one was riding high on the Bright, one was prone to fantasy. The gift of telepathy sounded nice, but Harper thought possessing an imagination was good enough.

A star fell. She wished for him not to move, to stay right where he was, with her head on his shoulder. If time were ever to snag in place, she wished for it to snag there, with John pressed against her and spring breathing in their faces.

He sat up so quickly she almost fell over. He reached across her and fiddled with the volume.

The crazy woman was talking about Grand Panjandrum Ian Judaskiller.

“Oh, this nutty bitch,” Harper said. She wouldn’t toss around the word bitch sober, but she was a lot less prim when she was drunk, which was how she felt now. “You know, every time she mentions this guy Ian Judaskiller, she gives him a different title. One minute he’s grand marshal, the next minute he’s field general. One of these days she’s going to say he’s been anointed the mighty muffsucker—”

“Shh,” he said, holding up one hand.

She listened. The woman on the radio said His Honor had promised to send twelve fully manned trucks into Maine to fight the resurgent wildfires, with the crews ordered to depart at noon Friday, praise Jesus and the holy host—

“We’ll go with them,” the Fireman said.

“Go with Jesus and the holy host?” she said. “I thought that’s what we were trying to avoid.”

“The fire crew,” he said, his eyes large in his bony face. “We’ll drive right across the bridge and into Maine with them. They’ll wave us right through with the others.” He turned his head and met her gaze. “They’re leaving in two days. We can be on Martha Quinn’s island by this time next week.”