RARE AND IMPERILED

She was ashamed to admit it now, but Sarah had thought she'd go inside whatever it was anyway. It wasn’t an arena or some kind of center. More like a club, a bar, what—mostly in other countries, she thought—was sometimes still called a discotheque. Lonnie had learned this word in Spanish class. She’d had to write it several times on a worksheet, and when Sarah had seen those letters made by Lonnie’s loops and turns, she’d said it herself over and over again. Discotheque. Like she couldn’t help it, like she was somehow helped by it, then and now as she drove the ten miles from the larger town, Florence, to the smaller town, Black Creek, where she and Lonnie and no one else—Sarah remembered, Sarah corrected herself—no one else lived in the house on Quinby Place.

Discoteca. Discoteca. Vamos a la discoteca.

Lonnie must have known all along that Sarah wouldn’t be going to the concert, that Lonnie herself wouldn’t allow it, and wasn’t it strange that your fifteen-year-old daughter would be telling you what you could, and more often could not, do? But this was the way it was or at least the way it was for Sarah and Lonnie.

Every now and then, Sarah would try to take some minor stand usually involving chores, which seemed these days—even though it was just the two of them—to be the bulk of life. You would think, she said or thought she said, we were running a farm.

She tried to be funny, tried to—as her husband might say—take a load off. But then, before she knew it, she was yelling about trash or Lonnie’s room or the dishes Lonnie still hadn’t washed. Little stuff. Dumb stuff that Sarah didn’t really even care about, but lately she found herself in a state of panic. There was a flash of heat and a pounding in her chest. She felt a rush of anxiety that might have taken a much darker form had she not willed herself to focus on the concrete objects before her—the dirty glass, for example, and other things she thought should worry good mothers and good fathers, and she was trying to play both roles now. She was all Lonnie had, and she was yelling from the tops of her lungs until her throat cracked, until Lonnie stormed out and went wherever Lonnie went, places Sarah was sure her daughter would somehow get hurt. Abducted. Killed. Or otherwise lost forever.

All right, Sarah said. It was still daylight when she dropped Lonnie off at the club, just around suppertime—the wrong time, the worst time, Sarah thought, to be in a bar. When the sun showed white and hard every time the door opened. When you were somehow more keenly aware of all the places you weren’t—at a table, for instance, eating a meal like a regular person with a regular family. It wouldn’t matter if the music was good, only that it was loud enough to drown out your sense of things, and Sarah suspected that even if the music was loud, it wasn’t going to be good. Lonnie said the band was getting big, but they weren’t the headliners. They weren’t even the opening act. They were somewhere high on the card of the club’s little festival, but you wouldn’t know it to hear Lonnie talk. To hear Lonnie talk was to witness the kind of brittle faith that might also be called denial from a certain perspective.

All right, Sarah said again. The car idled, and she lowered her head to look up at Lonnie through the passenger side window. Sarah, the photographer, should have been interested in that angle, the way the subject appeared larger than she was, but now Sarah, the scared mother, couldn’t get past the feeling of being deep below everything. The car seemed to press down upon her with the amazing weight of water or a great mound of dirt, and peering down at her was this giant of a girl who just happened—that’s how it felt, that Lonnie just happened to be her daughter. I’ll be fine, Sarah said, and when Lonnie didn’t hear her, when Sarah had to repeat herself, she added, because a child shouldn’t worry whether her mother is fine or not, I’ll be at the house.

But now, the house was the last place Sarah wanted to be, and when it came time to turn off the highway which had turned into Main, Sarah kept going. Sarah kept going and then turned down a different street that, if she kept on, would lead her back, a different way to the same town she’d just left. All the roads around here were nothing but circles. So to keep from going where she’d already been, Sarah swerved too fast into the parking lot of the gas station that was also a package store, and in so doing, she nearly hit a woman in jeans who was bending over to pick up what must have been a penny.

The woman kept standing where it wasn’t safe to stand, right in the middle of the lot, and hearing the engine and perhaps feeling the heat from it, she straightened and turned, but she didn’t stagger backward. She didn’t jump out of the way. She stood in the space as if she were a truck or at least the size of one, and she watched the car lurch to a crooked stop in the next space over. She saw the front tires pop the block and then roll back. She blinked when the engine shifted down but kept running.

Inside the car, Sarah uncovered her face. That is, her hand moved from her chapped lips to the base of her neck, and she mouthed, I’m sorry.

The lines around the woman’s eyes cinched up, but then so did her chin, and she shook her head. No problem, she said, and through the glass, Sarah was startled to hear the voice, to hear it perfectly fine. Sarah rolled down the window and said, It’s been a rough one.

The woman’s jaw moved, and she was a series of creases and pocks. She had the kind of face that looked beaten even when it wasn’t, but her body had held. Any place else, she might have been fifty. Sixty, even. Here, in Black Creek, the woman could have been thirty-five.

She held up what she’d bent down for, and it wasn’t a penny but a bobby pin, and still the woman said, My lucky day.

Inexplicably then, at least it seemed inexplicable to Sarah, the woman stuck out her hand, as if the bobby pin—bent and rusted as it was—were not a bobby pin but some exotic flower, which she tucked, as one would a hibiscus say, above Sarah’s ear. Now it’s yours, the woman said.

Sarah’s first impulse was to recoil, and in fact, she did jump back when she felt the woman’s fingers brush against the top of her ear, but she was buckled in the car, and there weren't many places she could go.

The woman was studying her. That’s a real pretty dress. Wow-wee.

It was a skirt and an embarrassing one at that—too short, silver sequins of all things. Sarah pulled at it and said, Well. Her finger found the button in the door, and the window went up and might have gone on going up if the woman hadn’t lunged forward. Didn’t she lunge? But maybe she had only bent down as cool as a car hop with a tray full of French fries and soda pops. Maybe she only leaned closer and said, I’ve got this real nice top.

Sarah made a sound. A cough. A whimper.

I mean, the woman said, it isn’t as pretty as all that.

She had both arms folded across the window, and with a fingernail, she scraped at a scab on her elbow. It’s red, and the neck comes down like this. She drew an arrow on her own chest, and then she did a shimmy. Yeah.

Sarah didn’t know what to do, so she nodded.

I bet you got a man. She said her man called Howard was there in the store. See him? she said, hitching the strap of her backpack purse. He’s in the suit.

And sure enough, there was a hefty little bald man in a gray jacket and gray pants. He stood at the counter, and he had one hand inside his jacket, and the clerk pushed a button, and the register drawer opened, and the clerk handed some money across the counter. Howard didn’t move, and the clerk handed him some more.

All right, Sarah said. Her hand was a claw on the door. She felt the bobby pin pulling at her hair.

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, the woman said, but she didn’t finish. She didn’t say what you would think or how it would be wrong.

I better get on, Sarah said.

The engine was still running, and above it, the woman laughed or rather made a kind of hissing sound. You haven’t even gone in to get what you came for. You’d give me three guesses, but I only need one.

Sarah shook her head. She told herself she hadn’t come here for anything. She’d come here to keep from going anywhere else. She pressed the switch, and the window sprang up another inch, and the woman said, Hey! with such force that Sarah jerked back, and she didn’t notice when one of her earrings, a gaudy bobbling thing fell into the floorboard.

The woman’s jaw squared. You almost hit me back there, she said, though it wasn’t back there at all, but at the very place where the woman still stood big as a truck, now smiling, now showing her gums. You could have killed me.

Sarah opened her mouth. She was suddenly aware of her own teeth, the bulk of them, the way they wanted to chatter.

I think I might be owed, the woman said, and just then, the glass door of the store opened and there on that door were stickers about being eighteen and older, about things that were for sale or else lost, and against this greasy glass and its sad little papers and ghostly fingerprints, there was a string of bells, and the woman sang, In a one-horse open sleigh. Hey! Isn’t that right, Howard? Isn’t it fun?

And in front of the door which was now closing, the man in the gray suit stood and did not look up at first, as if his name was not Howard at all, and the woman hollered at him. Let’s roll. This pretty lady’s giving us a ride.

Sarah shook her head, but what she thought was, I don’t want to go home. And what she said was discotheque, and anyway, it didn’t matter what she thought or said or did because here was the woman opening the passenger side door, and here was the woman falling into the seat with her backpack purse and reaching behind her for the belt and clicking it into place as if they all were the best of friends, as if they were setting out for a Saturday morning of shopping or whatever it was people did when they were together, but it wasn’t Saturday. It was Friday, and the woman said, Hurry up. Howard has an appointment. Howard has a very important meeting. Howard! She waved at him until he shoved whatever slip of paper he’d been studying into his jacket pocket and came around and got into the backseat.

They both stared at Sarah until the woman said, Come on then, pretty lady. She tapped the steering wheel. I’ll show you where.

In the mirror, Howard’s face was backward of what it really must have been—the scar above his eyebrow, the mole on his left cheek, the ear that was just a bit lower—all of this was on the wrong side, but the bottom lip that hung out fat and purple, this could not have been any other way.

The woman had switched on the radio. Playing now was a commercial for artificial knees, a woman carefully detailing the extent of her pain.

Just like my mama, the woman said.

Sarah thought the woman was talking to the radio, that the lady in pain was just like the woman’s mama, but the woman pointed at Sarah and said, No. You. You’re just like her.

I’m not old enough, Sarah said, to be your mama.

I saw your face, the woman said. I saw that face you made. She turned the dial on the dash until she found a song Sarah didn’t know. She didn’t know, Lonnie said, any songs. Lonnie said Sarah wouldn’t like the concert anyway. And discotheque, Lonnie said, was a stupid word.

When a person says something, the woman said, it’s decent to say something back.

Sarah blinked. Why?

Because it’s manners.

I mean, why am I like your mama? How?

The woman watched Sarah. Then she spoke. Mama never liked playing music in the car. Said you were liable to get hit by a truck. Run over by a train. That happened to somebody she knew. Cut the man’s head right off.

Sarah stared at the road.

Because Mama said when you got the radio on you won’t hear what’s coming next, the woman said. You won’t know until it’s too late. She reached for the knob, turned it up a few more notches. Howard, you know this song.

The woman had a way. Even when what she said was a question, she wasn’t really asking. Sarah, trying it on for herself, said, What’s your name?

Still her voice lifted and shook just like it did when she yelled at Lonnie, as if something inside were rattling and might, at any moment, turn loose.

Tarja, the woman said.

Tarja, Sarah said. Something in the mirror, a car, caught her eye.

Yeah. What about it?

Nothing.

You don’t like it.

I like it. It’s nice.

Nice.

It’s pretty is what I mean. It’s a real pretty name.

Tarja’s eyes were on Sarah. She considered. She searched. Then finally, she smiled. Finally, she showed the gums that were mostly pink but also in some places white. It is pretty, she said, even if nobody thinks so.

Sarah nodded and blinked. She checked the mirror. In the backseat, Howard pointed at something. He pressed his finger to the glass. His purple lip moved, but he said nothing.

Is he okay? Sarah said.

Tarja looked at the road in front of them. Just drive.

They were passing the last of what, in Black Creek, amounted to subdivisions—Wessex, King’s Gate, the Country Club Estates. They were coming up on the turnoff, which they might have gone down had they been turning back toward the town where Lonnie was. Thinking of Lonnie, Sarah let her foot off the gas, but Lonnie didn’t want her around. She’d made that clear, and Tarja said, Keep going.

And so they did. They kept going past all the metal buildings. Sarah didn’t know what they were, but they seemed to be all around Black Creek, a kind of corrugated moat of disrepair and neglect.

And past all this, far away from anything, so far that from the inside, you felt as if you were on another planet was a nowhere entirely. There were flashing lights, the ambulances, the hospital with that name Carolina Pines that was meant to make you think of a forest and the birds in the branches. Maybe there were only some like Sarah who thought that Carolina Pines sounded more like a place where things crawled to die.

When it finally happened, John’s feet had slipped from underneath the sheet. He’d been at the hospital for nearly a month, and without thinking, without hesitation, Sarah reached to tuck the blanket up under his heels, the heels she’d rubbed with lotion not two hours earlier. In that moment, she thought only of chill and always the desire, the need to be warm. But it wasn’t always, this necessity. It wasn’t even close.

Before Lonnie was born, they’d had a dog named Chipper, an old Basset that John had in high school and later in college. Chipper was thirteen years old, blind and septic when he disappeared. The woods, John said. That’s where he’s gone, and he nodded in the direction of Black Creek Park where—before he got so bad—they used to take Chipper for walks.

Sarah had wanted to go looking right then—He’s blind! she’d said because Sarah, who spent most of those days looking through a lens or staring down into a developing tray, could not imagine navigating a world thrown into total darkness—but John had stopped her. John had taken her arm and said sometimes it was best to let things pass their own way.

Still Sarah had loved Chipper, and when John went to work, she put on her boots and went down to the park, down to the creek. She’d searched everywhere, even under logs where she knew Chipper couldn’t be, and in the process, she’d found a stash of beer bottles and a spiral notebook the rain washed out, but she’d never found the dog. She walked those paths until it was nearly dark, until she knew John would be home soon.

Down there, beside the water, she could barely hear the cars on the street. She and John often said how peaceful it was, and she wondered if peace was what Chipper was after. Or privacy. Or was it something else? Something you wouldn’t recognize until you saw it, until you felt it for yourself. Something the dog had heard calling to him.

In that room, that window, fifth from the end. While Lonnie had studied for her Spanish test, all the words for all the places. Iglesia. Parque. Discoteca. A stupid word they shouldn’t have to learn, Lonnie said. Disco, Lonnie said, is dead.

She’d always say a prayer, too, Tarja said. Mama would. Just like that. Just like you. Whenever we saw an ambulance.

Sarah opened her mouth, and Tarja said, This hair. She grabbed her purse. She unzipped the front pocket and took out a plastic comb that was just like the combs the schools gave children so they could fix themselves before Sarah took their pictures. Those were the only photographs she took anymore. Sometimes as many as 400, 500 shots in a single day. When she closed her eyes at night, when she tried to sleep, she saw their faces, and what might have brought joy to some now only inspired in Sarah a special kind of horror. She’d wake up in a sweat, nearly screaming. She’d go check on Lonnie, make sure she was all right.

Tarja was dragging the comb through her hair. Every time we heard a siren, Mama started talking to Jesus. She said you never knew when it might be you. I guess, Tarja said, it’s always somebody.

In the backseat, Howard had a hand inside his coat. He might have been clutching his chest or something else he had in the pocket.

You don’t care if he cracks the window, Tarja said. Then to Howard: Crack the window. Get some air.

Into the car, there came a loud rush. He needs some wind, Tarja said. His mind is playing tricks, telling him we’re not moving. Howard, we’re moving.

It had been a while since Sarah had driven out past the hospital. I don’t know where to go, she said.

Not much farther, Tarja said. The comb snagged in a tangle, and one of the teeth broke.

I mean, Sarah said, as Tarja ripped at her hair, where are we going?

I told you I’d tell you, Tarja said. Her voice was sharp, and her body moved with a terrible quickness. She bent down to the floorboard, and when she straightened up, she had a gun, and she was aiming it at Sarah, and she was pulling the trigger, and there were pieces of Sarah’s skull stuck to the glass, which was shattered rather beautifully, and Sarah saw all of this in the mind that was most certainly in the next few seconds about to go as dark as dark can be, and she was actually steeled against this. She was actually squinting even as she drove, even as she realized that nothing had happened and what Tarja held was not a gun, but Sarah's very own earring, or rather, Lonnie’s earring that Sarah had borrowed because her own weren’t right. Her own weren’t right, and she’d borrowed these from Lonnie, and even then, Lonnie hadn’t said anything. Only later, when they were driving up to the place, to the concert, did Lonnie say, You don’t need to be here.

Pretty, Tarja said. She held the earring up and out. It would be nighttime soon, but now, the late afternoon sun made of the imitation jewels a kind of miniature stained glass. In one second, Tarja was staring at the earring. In the next second, she was looking past it at Sarah. And in the next, she was threading the earring, as fast as one might thread a fishing hook, with the flap of her own ear. I’m always finding stuff, she said. People lose everything.

From the backseat, there came a long, low moan.

He’s sick, Sarah said.

He’s all right. Tarja turned back, and the earring swung against a green bruise on her neck. Howard’s all right. Yeah, Howard is.

Sarah thought again of Chipper—all the names they’d called him. Chips. Chipster. Chippy-Dippy.

Almost there, Tarja said. I see the turnoff.

Where? Sarah said.

Tarja didn’t answer until they went up and over a rise and then around a corner, and then finally she said, Up here. Yeah. There.

Sarah’s foot moved from the gas to the brake. She turned on the blinker. She drove with a student’s exaggerated focus and precision, as though she were trying to pass a test. She made the turn down the dirt road under the sign that said Lake Darpo.

An ugly lake—dark and treacherous. Lake Darpo was a dammed tributary of Black Creek and just the kind of place for children to drown, which they did—one or two every year despite all the signs that said SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.

At Lake Darpo, risk, one dumb cop joked, is anything but a game. An unfortunate quote reported by Black Creek’s local newspaper. The next week, that same cop issued a public apology, which John had read out loud during breakfast. Everybody knew kids dying wasn’t funny. Humor, the cop wrote, is a crude coping mechanism. But as an officer of the law, as a person more generally, you had to cope. You had to survive. You had to somehow get through.

He’s right about that, John said. We don’t have a choice.

Sarah was chewing her toast. She could feel it cutting her mouth. There’s always a choice, she said.

Darpo was an acronym that ended in police officers, but Sarah could never keep the rest straight. The lake belonged to law enforcement, but anybody could come for the day. Every year, there was a big duck hunt. Ducks, mallards mostly, were hauled in from elsewhere, fed for a few weeks, then shot and hung by their feet. Here, too, was a stand of long-leaf pines and a few supposed sightings of the rare and imperiled red-cockaded woodpecker. They were already extinct in Maryland, Missouri, and New Jersey. The Black Creek sightings needed to be confirmed. A description of the precise location and habitat. A photo. Some proof of life. Then there would be some changes at Lake Darpo. Some effort toward conservation.

Sarah had come out here once, she and John. For their anniversary.

Going to the lake had been Sarah’s idea. What she wanted was to get out of the doctor’s office. I want to see, she said, something besides X-rays.

She’d told John about the ducks, about the woodpeckers. What else is out there? he said. He was teasing her. Bigfoot? Loch Ness?

Maybe, Sarah said, not knowing what exactly they might see, only that it was important to look.

But that day, the lake and, it seemed, the very air she and John breathed was perforated with the sound of gunshots. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. More than one at a time, and more than Sarah could count. Her first thought was that someone was being killed. This was always her first thought after John’s diagnosis, which that particular anniversary had been—four months after, to be exact.

John was young, the doctors said. He still seemed all right then, like maybe there was some chance. That was before they knew it had spread.

It was John who figured out by some mysterious set of signs and clues that cops used part of the park as a shooting range. Probably the safest place in town, he said, and he put his arm around Sarah, and he looked okay, but his hand was cold, and soon he started coughing, and Sarah didn’t feel safe. No matter how hard she tried, when a gun was fired, she couldn’t keep from jumping.

That was a year ago now. No, Sarah realized. It was more than a year. Even the playground equipment and the basketball goals and the picnic tables seemed more rusted, broken in new ways. The whole place was falling in on itself, and this time, when Sarah pulled up in the lot and cut the engine, there were no gunshots. There was only one other car, a Crown Victoria, in the lot.

It’s late for appointments, Sarah said. She’d thought about this earlier. She’d noticed, too, that even though the clerk seemed to be making change, Howard, like her, hadn’t bought anything at the store.

I told you we’ve got business, Tarja said. You don’t think we have business?

I didn’t say that.

Tarja looked at her.

I think you’ve got business, Sarah said.

We’ve got some things to settle, Tarja said.

Sarah nodded.

In the backseat, Howard sat still, but his fat lip quivered.

Tarja stared hard at Sarah. Stay here, she said and unbuckled her safety belt. She got out of the car and shut the door. Then she opened Howard’s. Come on now. You’ve done good so far.

Finally, Howard moved. He swung one leg out and then the other. At the convenience store, Tarja had seemed tall and strong. Actually, she wasn’t that big at all. She probably wasn’t much taller than Lonnie, and still Howard was shorter than her, by nearly a foot.

Tarja licked her finger and rubbed at the corner of his mouth. She said something Sarah couldn’t hear. In the mirror, she saw Tarja’s hand on Howard’s chest.

Right up there, Tarja said and pointed to the back side of small brick building that sat up on a weedy hill. She pushed Howard in the general direction. When he stopped and looked back at her, she said, Go on, and he did. He went on.

Tarja scratched her arms. She watched for some minutes until Howard disappeared around the corner of the building. Then she turned around. Her face was blank, and enough time passed for Sarah to wonder what exactly Tarja planned to do.

Then Tarja reached down into the floorboard of the backseat. When she straightened up, she had Sarah’s camera bag. She was unzipping it, pulling out the Nikon, saying, Wow-wee, pretty lady. She held the camera up to her face and pointed it at Sarah.

Careful, Sarah said.

And Tarja said, It’s expensive.

It’s important, Sarah said, but she didn’t believe it. Not anymore. At the last minute, she’d grabbed the camera thinking she might take some pictures at the concert. She thought she might get some good shots of Lonnie.

Come on, Tarja said, and now she did open the door. Come on and take my picture.

Tarja was already walking toward the water. The camera bounced on her chest.

Sarah watched her through the windshield. Then she unfastened her belt and got out of the car. She looked up at the trees. She looked at the trees across the water.

There she is, John had said, pointing at two stumps in the middle of the lake. There’s our Nessie.

There’s no such thing, Sarah said, rolling her eyes. But the truth was she hoped they would see something. She hoped they’d feel something just as miraculous, just as—she thought now—stupid.

Her legs were moving, and when she caught up, Tarja took the camera off and slipped the strap over Sarah’s head. The weight of it surprised Sarah, the heft that snapped against her neck. Over here, Tarja said. She went over to a big rock. She leaned up against it with her head back and her hips thrust out, a pin-up imitation so poor that Tarja herself must have sensed it because just as quickly, she went limp and, frowning, said, I need a smoke.

Sarah’s fingers moved on the dials of the camera.

The car, Tarja said. I smelled it.

Sarah held the camera over her face. They’re gone.

Tarja seemed to mull this over. It’s a nice car.

It’s a Honda.

Tarja nodded.

Sarah lowered the camera.

What? Tarja said.

And Sarah shook her head. Sarah shook her head quick. Nothing, she said. She tucked her hair behind her ear, felt the bobby pin still in her hair. Sit back up there, she said, pointing her chin at the rock. But face the water.

Tarja blinked at Sarah. Then she did what Sarah said. But as soon as Sarah held up the camera, Tarja turned and sucked in her gut and smiled.

Not like that, Sarah said. Just look at the water. Pretend I’m not here.

Tarja’s smile faded, and there was something else—a flash of anger? embarrassment?—but she turned her head. She looked away.

Tell me something, Sarah said. It was an old trick, a way to relax a person, to distract from what was really going on. Tell me something else about your mother.

Tarja snorted. Like what?

I don’t know. Something. Don’t look at me, she said. Look at the water.

Tarja watched Sarah. Her eyes lifted to the hill, to the little brick house. But then, she turned back. The last of the sun made light of her face.

Tell me how y’all were, Sarah said.

Tarja licked her lips. How we were, was happy as wet cats. Her hair was wild again and she pushed it back off her face. There was the bruise, Lonnie’s earring, sharp pieces of glass. I used to drive my mama crazy.

Sarah took a couple of shots. She adjusted the knobs, took a couple more.

I was always asking her why Jesus didn’t talk to me like he talked to her. I was worried, you know. That I wasn’t praying right or something.

It had been a long time since Sarah had taken these kinds of pictures. The first shots wouldn’t be any good. Sarah knew that, but she took a few steps closer, tried again.

Tarja kept talking. Mama said there wasn’t no right or wrong way. She said you just talk.

Sarah got closer. Her skirt was shining, casting points of light across Tarja’s back.

When you talk to Jesus, Tarja said, you just say whatever needs saying.

Through the lens, or maybe it was in that light, Tarja looked different—younger, closer to Lonnie’s age than Sarah’s.

So I kept saying whatever, Tarja said. I kept doing just what Mama said, and I kept praying, and I kept listening.

Sarah was very close behind Tarja now. She might have reached out and pushed her right off the rock. She let loose of the camera. She had what she needed. Did you hear something? Sarah said, and Tarja’s head swung around. She didn’t know Sarah had gotten so close. She wiped at her face, and it changed then, back to the way it was in the lot, and she said, You’re tricking me.

There at the lake, on their anniversary, Sarah had tried to tease John back. Shut up, she said when he kidded her about the monsters. There’s no such thing. She pushed him, but she should have pushed him harder because maybe there was. Maybe more was possible than any of them knew, and maybe it wasn’t all bad.

You think I’m stupid, Tarja said. She stood up on the rock, and she was tall now. She was taller than any person could be. You think I don’t know what you’re doing.

Sarah should have kicked John. She should have punched him in the face, and Sarah saw Tarja well enough now but she also saw John and, for the first time in a long time, she saw, she looked hard at that part of herself. She felt the rush, the pump in her chest, and it was fear. Sure, it was. But there was something else, too, and Sarah knew it. She saw then how this could turn out, what she might do. She saw the fear, and she saw what might be on the other side.

But there, in the middle distance, was the sound and the report, and she and Tarja drew back at the same time, as if they were two parts of a whole, a pair of awkward, delicate wings. And Sarah had spent her whole life looking, and now she’d finally seen some things, but what mattered most was what she heard, what she had been hearing—the beating of her own blood now all around them, a persistent knocking and then the flail and the flutter that could only be a kind of wonder startled into flight.