The streets of Irvington are ghost-town quiet during the middle of the day, save for delivery trucks. UPS, Coca-Cola, U.S. Mail, Frito-Lay, Brown’s Fuel Oil, FedEx. The drivers are the only people he sees. They park in front of stores—small markets, gas stations, Mail Boxes Etc., a Beverage Barn—but there aren’t any people out. Only the Kroger shows signs of life as some housewives push their carts from the store to their cars.
He rolls along the streets, feeling it start to bubble down there inside of him, the thermal geyser. The thin crust that keeps things in place breaks away inside of him under the force of the building pressure, and the hot lava starts sliding around. Other is up and about. He feels his breath coming shallow. An hour passes, and then another.
Where are you, Cinnamon, where are you?
Eventually he points the car back toward his office, but he knows it isn’t going to let him rest now. He knows it because he’s felt it like this before. He knows where it will end up. Once the bubbling starts, it’s just a question of where he points it, because it is going to blow …