"When we killed Darren, I knew."
She stood and lit a cigarette. "This is your family business," she said,
"why we're driving up north?"
He nodded, not trusting his voice, seeing the outlines of Grad's face,
outlined in moth-eaten blanket.
"So," she said. "Let's get up north, then. Take an end."
The night was cold, and they staggered under the weight of the body
wound in the blanket and laid him out in the trunk of the car, shifting
luggage and picnic supplies to the back seat. At two a.m., the motel
lights were out and the road was dark and silent but for the soughing of
wind and the distant sounds of night animals.
"Are you okay to drive?" she said, as she piled their clothes
indiscriminately into the suitcases.
"What?" he said. The cool air on his face was waking him up a little,
but he was still in a dream-universe. The air was spicy and outdoors and
it reminded him powerfully of home and simpler times.
He looked at Mimi without really seeing her.
"Are you okay to drive?"
The keys were in his hands, the car smelling of the detailing-in-a-can
mist that the rental agency sprayed on the upholstery to get rid of the
discount traveler farts between rentals.
"I can drive," he said. Home, and the mountain, and the washing machine,
and the nook where he'd slept for 18 years, and the golems, and the
cradle they'd hewn for him.
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