“In case of what?” she demands.
“And no matter what, do not go back home. You can’t ever go back there. Promise me.”
“This is really not normal, Johnny. This is all very strange,” says your mother.
Then Toby is standing in the hallway in just his underwear and a T-shirt. He’s signing too fast for you to understand but you catch a few words: Dad. Stay. Please. Dad.
“Okay, little man, okay.” You go to him and pick him up. His thin arms wrap around your neck and he buries his head against your chest. Like he’s been dreading this moment ever since you came home from prison, like he knew at some point you’d go away again. And for whatever reason he loves you. Even though you are angry and full of hate and anxiety and fear, he loves you. You stroke his hair.
“It’s okay, buddy. We’re okay.” You feel his tears on your palm, and you try to sign to him as best you can, but you’re so elementary. “I’m just going to do a job, Toby. I’m going to do some work and get paid, so we can finally go someplace nice, you know? Nothing to be afraid of. We’re just having a weird day.”
He pulls away to sign Very weird.
“Yeah.” You snort back tears and laugh. “Too weird. Be good for Mommy. Listen to her and Grandma. Okay?”
He nods, not done crying, and you hug him again, kiss the top of his dirty head.
“You’re such an amazing kid, you know? You’re my whole life, little man.”
Your voice cracks, holding your boy. Your mom looks confused. Raquel joins the two of you in the embrace. You kiss her and thank her for never giving up on you. The feeling you’ve had your whole life, that no one gives a shit whether you’re alive or dead, hurt or healthy, in danger or safe, hungry or fed, Raquel’s the only one who’s made it recede for any length of time. It makes you insane, if Casey hadn’t warned you, to think of what could’ve happened. When you close your eyes to kiss her, you see Ginna naked with a black hole in her forehead and the reverend upside down, dripping. They wanted you, you understand, not because you’re important but because of how easily you can be squashed.
“I’ve gotta go.” And you pull away from your family. You take the truck’s keys from your pocket, wipe snot on your sleeve. Soon you are back on the road, telling yourself you can turn around anytime you want. You can always call it off. You can always go back.
You haul ass north, hitting traffic outside Dayton. No jobs to be had, but everyone still has a reason to be somewhere in this exhausted hour of the morning. When you realize you’ll be late, you begin to sweat. If you miss this opportunity, you have no idea what you’ll do. Your mom lives on pennies. You and Raquel have nothing but the clothes on your back. You have no friends, no network, no place left to run.
You make it to the Commodore Perry Service Plaza by 8:30 a.m., desperately scanning the parking lot, unsure of who you’re supposed to be looking for. You leave the key under the seat for Casey and step into the heat of the morning. It’s already in the eighties and the sky is a hazy white. A storm on the way. You can tell by the way the wind is flipping the leaves. You walk across the parking lot, looking for what you’re not sure. It’s relatively busy at this hour; early-morning travelers buying coffee and snacks. Everyone looks tired or on edge. Maybe that’s just you. You’re headed inside when a woman’s voice calls to you from behind.
“John.”
This is not who you expected. She’s middle-aged and pretty in a wealthy kind of way. Pert, angular features with fashionable ARs hovering over severe gray eyes. She wears a loose pink top, and her hands are tucked into black-and-white checkered pants. Overdressed for this hot Ohio rest stop.
“We’re over here,” she says, gesturing with her head to a plain white cargo van, the kind without windows in the back.
You hesitate. You see a driver behind the wheel, a Black guy craning his neck to get a look at you.
“I need to know more.”
“Sure, we can talk in the van.”
“No. Out here.”
She looks around. “Hard to tell who’s listening out here.”
“I want the first nine grand up front.”
She pouts her lower lip. Removes a phone from her back pocket. “No problem. It’s done.” She punches a few keys and then holds the phone up to show you. A transfer to the bank with your account. The number now a satisfactory four figures. “You don’t have to worry about the money. If you do the work, you’ll be fairly compensated. Exactly as you were told.”
“I want something else,” you say, and though you hadn’t planned to ask for this, here it comes all the same. “I want the same deal for a woman named Claire Ann Chickering. Last I heard she was living in Hamilton, Ohio. I want the same deal for her. An account. Fifty K. The whole thing.”
The woman regards you. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“It’s the deal now. Or I walk away.”
“Who is she?”
“Don’t matter fuck-all who she is. She gets the fifty K too. Not split. Fifty K for her, fifty K for Raquel and Toby.”
“Now we’re negotiating?”
“Call it what you want, lady.”
Her eyes wander the parking lot. This might be nervousness, but she’s so icy it’s hard to tell.
“Tell you what: You get in the van, we set up another account. You do what we ask of you, without hesitation and without question, Claire Ann’s in. If not, no baby mamas get anything, and we put a bullet in your head. Fair enough?”
You hock back snot. “Figured that part anyway.” And you brush past her, the door of the van opening for you as you approach.
On the road, these folks make their introductions. The blond woman is Quinn. The driver is Kai. And there is another guy, a little white kid named Henry. He’s even shorter than you, dressed in an Abercrombie T-shirt and tan cargo shorts exposing pale, twig shins. He has crooked yellow teeth, acne on his neck, and says hi nervously, eagerly. He’s very pleased to make your acquaintance, he says. The van is hollowed out with bucket seats attached to one side. When Kai pulls back out on the highway, you look past Henry’s head through the little mesh window and spot the signs for Cleveland. Quinn makes a call, which essentially boils down to “We’re on our way.”
“Are you going to tell us what we’re doing?” Henry asks. Only now do you realize he’s like you. He doesn’t know any of these people you’re dealing with.
“We have to meet up with some friends,” says Quinn. “It’s better if we go over the plan then.”
“All I’m trying to do is fight the man and get paid! Know what I’m saying!” Henry laughs far too hard, far too loud, and for far too long. He’s painfully young, maybe not even old enough to buy a drink. You ride on in a lot of silence. After a while you realize Kai is skirting Cleveland, heading downstate on one of the north-south highways. Irrationally, you wonder if they’re taking you back to the church, if this was all a complex ruse to hang you by your ankles while hungry men scrape your skin off with KA-BAR knives. This passes, and you’re so exhausted you finally doze.
When you wake, it’s because the van has stopped. The door is open, and you hear Kai and Quinn talking. Henry is outside as well, all three of them staring at something. The wind blows outrageously, watering your eyes. The sky is as green as the summer leaves.
“How long to get around this?” Quinn asks.
“Two hours, maybe more,” says Kai.
And as you hop out, you can’t believe they’re talking about it so calmly. The van is stopped on a bridge spanning a deep, green valley. There is a traffic jam ahead and then—nothing but air. The bridge has collapsed, the road simply vanishing over the brim, and across the rift is the scar of concrete and rebar on the other side, still held aloft by massive cement pillars as tall and thick as buildings. There is forty feet of empty space where the highway used to be with cars and trucks stopped on either side of the void. Some folks are turning around. Others are waiting, as if the road will magically stitch itself back together. While Kai and Quinn debate, you walk up to peer over. Hundreds of feet below, huge chunks of concrete rubble lie at the bottom of the valley. The fender of a truck is poking out. You stumble back, dizzy.