Before he set out for John’s house, Roy wanted to time himself with the stopwatch. It would help him to know how long it would take, how long he’d have to hold on to get through the list: break the window, open the door, walk in—six steps at the most—lift it from the wall, six steps back, The End. His guts cramped grossly if he tried to imagine doing it, seeing the street sign, what the door would look like, a broken window, John’s house. OhJohn’sHouse. The place where he lived. His nice things. How much John would hate Roy for being there.
But if it was just a number of seconds, if he could just think of it like that . . .
He couldn’t find it. The stopwatch had been in the passenger seat. He was sure of it. He checked under the lace pillow, under the plastic bags from the convenience store. He shook crumbs all over the seats from a chip bag and one from pork rinds in case the stopwatch had slid into one of those by accident. This was taking too long. Sweat slipped down his back and glued his hair to his neck. The air felt like he was sucking it through a wet rag. Way too long. Roy started counting as he piled his things on the asphalt, checking everything on the way out, just to double-check the same stuff as he threw it all back in.
Beating the clock was an old trick to keep himself focused, to push worry aside so it wouldn’t distract him so much. It kept fear a little bit further away. Like garlic for a vampire. That’s what his mother had said. She’d taught him the little habit after she’d gotten sick, to help him get through his chores so he didn’t get in trouble with his grandmother. It only took ninety-six seconds to load the sheets into the machine and start the laundry. She bled a lot in those last days. He was eleven.
The next best thing to timing with the watch was counting. It put his mind a little steadier. So he kept counting, then and now. He’d once made it to four hundred and nine when his grandmother beat him with a broom handle.
The sun was searing as he rummaged in the back seat. Four hundred ten, four hundred eleven . . .
He knew the stopwatch was in here somewhere. But when the count got to six hundred, he wasn’t sure anymore if he was right. He thought he remembered having the watch out one day on the work site. Did he leave it? No, he put it back. He was almost positive. The muscles in his arm trembled. His legs were going rubber. And was he at six hundred going over to seven hundred or should he only be heading into the six hundreds now? He should have parked in the shade.
The timer was under the seat, pinned by a shoe box—filled with coins, an American-flag bandanna stiff with dirt, an empty key ring with a crumbling stress squeezer on it, and a pack of mints melted solid.
He should throw that stuff away. There was a trash can across the parking lot. It was just junk. His eyes roamed the piles of stuff in the truck, the silhouette like a mountain range. He put the box back under the seat.
It took twenty-four seconds to tie his boots.
He could hold his breath for forty-one seconds. Fifty-six if he counted the exhale and dragged it out until his lungs burned.
Marcelline had shown him that the picture on the wall in John’s house was close to the door. It might take only as long to tie his boots as to break the window and get inside John’s house. Then six steps. That’s all. Six steps, twelve round-trip, not hurrying. It only took him twelve seconds.
And he would be hurrying.
Less time than it took to tie his boots plus way less time than he could hold one breath altogether. He could be brave for that long. Please.
It would be done. Done. Done right. Please.
Walking in and out of the alley, holding a gun, not shooting it, should have taken thirty-nine seconds. At the most. He’d spent all that day timing himself, and it was what he’d thought the worst case would be—thirty-nine horribly scary seconds. It would be less time if he could be better, if he could not be pulled under a tidal wave of freezing fear. But thirty-nine seconds was the worst that could happen. It wasn’t that bad.
He’d been to the liquor store, but couldn’t feel the raspberry minis. And he’d already been shaking when he drank the first can of energy drink, so he couldn’t tell if that was working either. He’d had three total since putting all his stuff back in the truck, with one vodka each in the first two cans, and two poured into the last one. He couldn’t feel any of it. Please.
His fingers were numb and he caught himself holding his breath even without the stopwatch.
Please.
Please.
Let it be over.
Please.