by Peter Straub
“Yes. So is Polar Bears.”
“I thought he was the one—the one who killed those girls.”
“I thought so too, for a little while,” I said. “I’m sorry. Polar Bears thought so too for a little while. He was the one that finally put the idea in my head.”
“I can’t go back, Miles,” she said.
“Fine.”
“Will I have to go back?”
“You can think about it,” I said.
I was just steering, just driving a car. For a while her crying was a wet noise beside me. The road seemed to wind generally westward. I saw only farms and a winding road ahead of me. After this valley there would be another, and then another after that. Here the trees grew more thickly, coming right down to the buildings.
She straightened her back on the seat beside me. There were no more crying noises. “Let’s just drive,” she said. “I don’t want to see Zack. I can’t see him. We can write back from wherever we get to.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Let’s go someplace like Wyoming or Colorado.”
“Whatever you want,” I said. “We’ll do whatever you want.” The curve of a neck, the pressure of a pair of hands, the familiar gesture of an arm. The blisters on my hands began truly to hurt; the nerves in my face began to transmit the pain of being burned; I was beginning to feel better.
At the next curve of the valley the car trembled and the motor died. I heard myself begin to laugh.