I’m way too old for my wagon. Too old to be heading down the sidewalk dragging the red Radio Flyer Gus gave me back when I was about four.
But I don’t care. I can’t waste time feeling a little silly, not when I’m on a mission. I’m in such a rush, I forget about keeping a safe distance between myself and the wagon, and yelp a couple of times when it nips at my heels.
I look for Chuck first at Hopewell, but the building is boarded up and deserted. The broken fragments of wood and plaster and glass the storm tore off have been swept away from the lot and the sidewalk. But the church still stands like a broken twig.
I head straight for Montgomery and find Chuck in the parking lot. He looks like half a person, the way he’s bent over the lip of the donation bin, sifting through the contents. He looks like the legs-only part of a man, still wearing his black-and-white high-tops.
The squeak of my wagon wheels makes Chuck pull his head from the bin. “Hey, Auggie,” he says. When Chuck says my name, it doesn’t sound awful at all—it sounds chewy and sweet, like saltwater taffy.
He looks at my wagon, points, and says, “That’s empty.”
All I can think is, Not for long.