There were only four hours between falling asleep and our alarms. I heard Rudy and Chan scribbling—one words, one images—long after I turned out the light.
I probably would have busted my ass in the shower if not for Becky. She was peeing on the other side of the curtain, and said, “You almost done in there?” That’s when I realized I was napping on my feet with a bar of soap in my hand.
When I was more awake and packed, Chan, Rudy, and I left the girls on Hazzard. The still-dark morning of West Virginia greeted us with brisk, northern air. Chan carried Rudy over the gap, and we fixed a camp breakfast on the tailgate. Flynn and his dad, Mr. Grimes, stopped by on their way to church.
“Y’all make it through the night okay?” Mr. Grimes asked.
I glanced sideways at the guys. Their eyes were wide. “Yes, sir,” I said, like we’d had the most normal night in the world.
Mr. Grimes toed the ground. “My apologies if the armory made you uncomfortable. I told Flynn last night we probably should’ve moved ’em for you.”
“We put a couch in front of the door,” I told him.
“Your dad told me you could handle yourself. I see he was right.” He and Flynn climbed back into their Jeep. “You’re welcome anytime at Eight Echoes,” he said. Flynn waved goodbye and they drove off.
“Sometimes weird people are more normal than you’d think,” Rudy said.
“You can say that again,” Chan said.
The girls appeared, still wet from a shower, and we offered them Mom’s biscuits. Everyone listened to Miss Hazzard lap gently against the dock.
“It’s going to be a nice day,” Rudy said, stretching in his chair.
Whether that was optimism or prediction, I didn’t know, but I smiled. And I hoped.
Without ceremony, we tossed everything into the back of the truck and rock-paper-scissored for driver. Becky took the wheel, even though paper covered rock and driving technically fell to me. She had the cab toasty and our playlist music cranked and it would have been a fine time if we weren’t so tightly wound.
Before we’d fallen asleep last night, Becky had taken a vote for Accelerant Orange. Unanimous to attend. That was the only thing on our minds today, and there was very little to say that hadn’t already been said.
We crossed into Pennsylvania in no time. Sunrise exploded pink and orange along I-81, and I thought of Carter. Was he unloading last-minute artifacts, driving toward the Green-Conwell with the bus in a trailer? Or was everything set up already? Were the Westwoods there somewhere, waiting in a sequestered room for me to arrive? Hoping no one identified who they were on the way in? Was today the day I disappointed the people who had given nearly a hundred thousand dollars by fainting in front of the bus?
Around Allentown, Rudy dialed the radio to a hum and asked if he could read what he’d written during the night. There was a chorus of nods. “This doesn’t have a title yet.”
He cleared his throat and read.
“Terrorism isn’t a bomb; terrorism is being afraid there will always be a bomb.
“I know terror.
“I do not know the white-hot rage of revenge that lines a vest with dynamite and screws and nails. I cannot imagine standing in front of a man, any man, and zipping a death shirt from waist to Adam’s apple like a mother puts a coat on a child in the morning before school. I will never know the explosions that occur in a bomber’s brain before he acts. I cannot fathom pressing a trigger to cause the end of the world.
“For these things, I am thankful. I would rather die thousands of times than be one who kills senselessly.
“Pain isn’t a bomb; pain is being afraid no one understands your pain.
“I know pain. I’m intimately acquainted with the loneliness of believing I am the only one who understands pain like mine.
“Blame isn’t a bomb; blame is a single arrow I shoot at myself.
“I know blame.
“Fear isn’t a bomb; fear is a friend I greet every morning like a spouse on the other side of my bed.
“I know fear. Fear reminds me that the world takes what it wants, and it probably wants me. Fear whispers, Today could be your last day. Fear is my tattoo, the one on my face, the one strangers see at first glance and think, My God, boy, what happened to you?
“There were days I wanted to be done with terror, pain, blame, and fear. I planned to kill the bad emotions like they were monsters. But it’s hard to kill the monster that lives inside you.
“Today, I’m exorcising the monster.
“There is no way to know in advance if I have the strength. I won’t know until I touch Bus Twenty-One and look at my friends and say, ‘I’m ready.’ I won’t know until I allow them to lift my chair onto the very bus that stole my legs. But if a man can be ready to be ready, I am that man.”
He dropped the laptop into his backpack and laughed a little, the way honest people often do when delivering truth.
“You’re going to be a journalist,” I said.
“I’m going to be a journalist,” he repeated.