Sixty-Two

SIXTY-TWO

Hollow wind.

Reggie collapsed onto Liz, pulling at her. “Get up,” she yelled. “Into the house now!” Her fingers around Liz’s sweaty arms. Jed watched them fall over each other and thought of that old show his dad used to make them watch when they were kids, The Three Stooges. In his mind, he heard kazoos and a crackling laugh track. He could still remember laying on his stomach in front of the television watching monochrome images play out through a scrim of dust. Liz next to him on the shag, cross-legged, chin cupped in her hands. This tableau felt like another life from another world, idealized statuettes in a dry snow globe. Now, as Jed watched his mother and sister struggle out the front of their house, his face impassive and cold, he wondered if this memory was even real. Their snow globe was most certainly cracked.

Wes picked up the gun and something snapped in him.

Something in the dark.

The weapon was his.

Wes was never one to theorize about fate. He didn’t beli