"You forgot this," Brad said, handing him the knife.
Alan took it from him. It was sharp and dirty and the handle was grimed
with sweat and lime.
"Thanks, kid," he said. He reached down and took Billy's hand, the way
he'd done when it was just the two of them. The three eldest sons of the
mountain stood there touching and watched the outside world rush and
grind away in the distance, its humming engines and puffing chimneys.
Brendan tugged his hand free and kicked at the dirt with a toe,
smoothing over the divot he'd made with the sole of his shoe. Andy
noticed that the sneaker was worn out and had a hole in the toe, and
that it was only laced up halfway.
"Got to get you new shoes," he said, bending down to relace them. He had
to stick the knife in the ground to free his hands while he worked. The
handle vibrated.
"Davey's coming," Benny said. "Coming now."
Alan reached out as in his dream and felt for the knife, but it wasn't
there, as in his dream. He looked around as the skin on his face
tightened and his heart began to pound in his ears, and he saw that it
had merely fallen over in the dirt. He picked it up and saw that where
it had fallen, it had knocked away the soil that had barely covered up a
small, freckled hand, now gone black and curled into a fist like a
monkey's paw. Marci's hand.
"He's coming.
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