It was amazing how easy it was to sit next to Sam and say absolutely nothing. I was so used to my own mind going at a reckless, autobahn speed—this worry, that fear—that I was amazed a person could be so absolutely still. We spent the morning manning his sales tables outside J & E Automotive. If I strained a bit to peek around the corner, I could see our Explorer in an open garage bay, waiting. Another driver pulled in for service and then left on foot for the diner across the road, the one that said only DINER in huge red letters, as if it were the only such place in the world. No one seemed interested in purchasing a snow globe re-creation of one of humanity’s great tragedies, although a surprising number of cars with out-of-state plates rumbled past. Maybe Lyman, Wyoming, had a strange electromagnetic force that was compelling them off the interstate.
I repeated this thought to Sam, who said simply, “Huh.”
“Like something that might have been on The Twilight Zone.”
He nodded, then added a minute or so later, “I’ve never seen it.”
This made me feel very sorry for Sam Ellis. It also made me remember the giant satellite dishes affixed to every house we’d passed in Lyman, and made me wonder how that could be true. Find the one house without a satellite dish, and that must be where he lived. I was thinking about reaching for his hand under the table, remembering how his skin had felt last night, so warm next to mine.
But then he asked, “What’s up with your dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“I just mean, what’s his deal?”
“What’s his deal?” I echoed. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
He held up both hands, palms out in surrender. “Okay. It was just a question.”
We were quiet for a long time, watching people go in and trickle out of DINER, and a woman push a baby stroller with twins past us and then, completing a loop, back again. The twins were screaming, but the woman had on headphones and didn’t seem bothered by their noise. I was annoyed, both by the crying twins and Sam’s question; after our heart-to-heart last night, it didn’t seem that I should have to put this into words, too. If only there was some sort of electrode I could plug in to each of our brains, so we could know everything without having to ruin it with more talking.
“Fine,” I announced so abruptly that Sam jumped, banging his knee against a table leg. “Fine. It’s none of your business, but I’ll tell you what’s up with my dad. What’s up is that my older brother, who was this musical genius and a way better kid than me, died four years ago. What’s up is that my dad and mom couldn’t handle being together, so my mom left. What’s up is that my dad had some kind of psychotic break at work and he was, like, this close to jumping off a roof.” I held up my thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart for emphasis. “So that’s what’s up with him, if you must know.” I stood, wanting to make some kind of dramatic exit, and then, considering that I really had nowhere to go, plopped dramatically back into my chair.
Sam contemplated this for a long time. At least, that’s what I figured he was doing. With anyone else, there would have been an instant apology or a hug or a spilled tale of similar woe, but Sam really seemed to be pondering everything I’d said. When he finally spoke, it was to say “That can’t be true, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, he can’t have been a better kid than you. I hope you know that.”
I stared at him.
“But you’re right, it isn’t any of my business.”
“Thanks,” I whispered. Tears smarted in my eyes, and I half turned on my folding chair so that I was facing away from him and toward the parking lot with the rusting car skeletons.
Sam was quiet again, although I could tell he had something more to say. This was Lyman time: nice and slow, no need to get in a rush and mess things up. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “I just—thought I should tell you. I would want to know if it involved me.”
I whirled around. “Want to know what?”
“It’s just that I might know something about your dad that you don’t know.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. Where the hell was my Fear Journal when I needed it? I had this sudden Star Wars-inspired flash of Sam Ellis telling me that my dad was also his father, relic from a long-ago trip across I-80. Or else that the barber down the road was part of a cult that practiced human sacrifice, and right now my father was bound and gagged and wrapped in someone’s throw rug, mummy-style, ready to be placed on an altar. But for once those fears seemed ridiculous. The panicky feeling in my chest wasn’t new; it had only been lying dormant. There was something wrong with Dad, and I had known it since the moment I saw him on the roof. I’d been beating back that fear all week, pretending this trip was some kind of normal father-daughter bonding ritual.
“You’d better tell me,” I ordered, breathless, “or I’m going to hyperventilate, and it’s going to be ugly for both of us.”
But instead of telling me—really, this boy was too infuriating for words—Sam reached into the pocket of his jeans with cinematic slowness and pulled out something, which he held out for me in the palm of his hand.
“What is that?” I asked, and then, understanding and not understanding all at once, I demanded, “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a bullet. A cartridge, whatever you want to call it,” he said. “It was in your car.”
“It was not.” My face was hot. “That was not in our car. We don’t have a gun. My dad doesn’t have a gun. So why would we have a bullet in our car? And what were you doing in our car, anyway?”
He closed his palm around the bullet, and it disappeared, like a twisted magic trick. I felt sick to my stomach all of a sudden, like I had a bad case of cramps, or the bowl of out-of-season fruit from breakfast was catching up with me. Slowly, Sam explained, “When I got here this morning, my stepdad asked me to check for any warning lights in your car, and I moved the driver’s seat forward a bit. Your dad’s a lot taller than me. So I reached under the seat—”
“And there was just a bullet lying there, under the driver’s seat?” Two pink spots rose like balloons on my cheeks. I didn’t wait for him, but answered my own question. “You’re wrong. Believe me, I would have noticed if there was a bullet rolling around down there.” I wasn’t absolutely sure this was true, given the amount of snack wrappers and pens and other things that tended to accumulate on the floor of our car—but still.
Sam opened his hand again, rotating the bullet back and forth along his palm. It was funny how small and innocent it looked, like something that couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. Guns don’t kill people, I thought, stupidly. Bullets do. “When I was reaching down there, my hand rubbed against the top of the underside of the seat, you know?”
I stared at him.
“And I felt something kind of funny, so I got out of the car and I bent over to check it out. They were taped to the bottom of the seat with a bunch of duct tape.”
“They?” I was going to throw up. I leaned over my knees, breathing hard, but still I heard Sam say “Yeah. Five bullets, all taped up there.”
I concentrated on breathing in and out, my eyes pinched closed. In and out, in and out. Where was Mom, to come to the rescue with a paper bag?
“Maybe it was for—I don’t know, some kind of protection for your trip,” Sam offered.
“But he doesn’t have a gun,” I huffed. “I would know, believe me. He doesn’t even go hunting or anything. He’s not a gun guy.”
“These bullets aren’t for hunting,” Sam pointed out. “I’ve been hunting, and I would know. These are for a handgun.”
“No way, there’s no way,” I whimpered, pulling my hoodie over my head so that it shielded most of my face, and Sam Ellis wouldn’t be able to see me cry.
Sam tried again, probably alarmed by my display. “You know, there are a lot of reasons why—”
I cut him off, blubbering. “No, there aren’t. There are no reasons.” I couldn’t think. Why in the world did my dad need a gun? Was he involved in—something? I couldn’t even imagine. He was my dad, for goodness’ sake. What was he hiding from me? I sniffed, trying to hold back an impending tidal wave of mucous. And then I felt it, hesitant at first, and then firm as anything: Sam’s hand on my back, rubbing a slow, comforting circle.
“I’ll help you,” he promised. “Okay? We’ll figure it out.”