FIFTY-ONE
He wasn’t aware of actually driving.
He glimpsed pieces of road, the bleached-white sound walls that lined the New York State Thruway, a toll booth or two.
He was seeing something else.
A couple of times he almost turned on the windshield wipers to clear away the raindrops. It wasn’t raining.
Doing some chores up at the lake, Mom had texted. See you tonight.
When he’d jumped in the car, he hadn’t known that’s where he was going. He was running away from the house. That’s all. It took him a while to realize he was headed to another house.
There was this show he’d seen on Netflix where everyone had to wear blindfolds so you wouldn’t see the monster and end up killing yourself. Just the sight of the monster was enough to push you to do it.
This was Ben. He was trying to not see the monster. He was trying to not kill himself.
A couple of times he’d thought of steering the car right into the sound wall.
Two seconds and it’d all be over.
He stuck to the road. Tried to concentrate on passing signs.
ALBANY—112 MILES.
OVERLOOK MOTEL—6 MILES.
ROCKING HORSE RANCH—NEXT TURN.
Goldy was eating a blue carrot in the picture on Jenny’s door. She’d spelled Goldy’s name with a backward G.
He passed a state police car squatting on the highway shoulder like a spider waiting for passing flies. Stock-still until it was ready to pounce.
Hey, Officers, might I have a word with you?
Jenny was talking to her imaginary friend again.
Through the bedroom door.
Do I look pretty? Do I really?
He thought of the broken highway lines as a fence—his job was to stay behind it. On one side was him. On the other, the sound wall. Which would make the sound of Ben’s head-on crash disappear maybe. The police looking through their windshield and seeing a silent thunderbolt of flame.
The smoke was still there in his lungs. In his eyes. The fire was in him now.
Count the miles. Something to do. The odometer moving in tiny, painstaking increments.
Fifty-two and one-tenth miles . . . and two-tenths . . . and three . . .
Miles to go before I sleep. A poem they read in English class. He had miles and miles to go before he’d be able to shut his eyes. So he could finally stop seeing. Please.
He shoved her door open.
NO, BEN!
He shoved her door open and there was Jenny.
PLEASE, Ben! NO!
He shoved her door open and there were Jenny and Dad.
GET OUT!
Jenny and Dad.
On the bed. With no clothes on.
Dad was hurting her. Hurting Jenny. Trying to stop Jenny from screaming now. His arm around her mouth. Around her neck. Squeezing.
NO, DADDY . . . PLEASE . . .
He raised his arm—the one with the cast. To block out the sight forever. To stop him from hurting her.
The world went black.
Black as sleep. Black as nothingness. Black as death.
Over and out.