Back at the booth, Theo’s face was twisted with rage. He was still talking. “Please don’t do this. Just let him go; I can tell you what you want to know. Don’t do this. Don’t fucking do this!”
And then Les had shouldered open the door, and he spun Auggie away from the restaurant and into a blast of snow and cold. The storm had gotten worse; a thick layer of snow had already settled across Frozen King’s parking lot, and traffic on the state highway had thinned out, probably because people weren’t willing to risk the weather. A little red Geo zipped along the road, and where the highway curved, the lights fishtailed for a moment and almost went off the shoulder.
“Colder than a nun’s tits,” Les muttered, steering Auggie toward a big, black Ford that was rumbling at the back of the lot. Exhaust drifted over the asphalt. Snowflakes spun and whirled; where the sodium lights caught them, they became mirrors and prisms. The effect dazzled Auggie, whiting out his vision. Get in the truck, you’re dead. Get in the truck, you’re dead. Get in the truck.
A hard wind cut across the lot, the snowflakes spinning on the new current, and Auggie blinked to clear his eyes. He was breathing through his mouth. He could still taste fries and chocolate malt, but with the mineral taste of snow settling on his tongue. A ringing started in his ears. He slipped.
“Shit,” Les said, almost going down with Auggie.
Auggie twisted, broke free, and ran for the empty field next to the Frozen King.
“Get the fuck back here,” Les screamed. Running footsteps smacked the asphalt behind Auggie. “Boyo, your ass is going to be—”
A thunk cut off the shouts.
“Auggie!”
Theo’s voice.
Auggie skidded to a halt and looked back. Picked out by the sodium lights and the spindrift of snow, Theo was just an outline, that ridiculous bro flow of hair unmistakable. He had a mop over his shoulder like a baseball bat, and light gleamed along the aluminum pole. Les lay on the ground in front of him.
“Car,” Theo shouted, and then he lurched toward the Malibu.
Turning, Auggie sprinted toward Theo. When Theo got into the passenger’s seat, Auggie shot to the other side and dived behind the wheel. Theo already had the keys in the ignition, and Auggie turned them. The Malibu’s engine cranked. And cranked. And cranked.
“Shit,” Theo muttered.
Risking a glance, Auggie saw a big guy who had gotten out of the Ford and was jogging across the lot. Les had pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and the big guy was shouting something to him.
The Malibu’s engine was still trying to turn over.
“For the love of fuck,” Auggie screamed.
That did the trick.
As the Malibu’s engine grumbled to life, Auggie shifted into reverse, backed out of the stall, and then shifted again. They shot out onto the state highway, and only luck kept them from sliding into the drainage ditch when Auggie turned. Tires slewed in the snow, and Auggie pictured the Geo fishtailing as it went around the bed. Panic came for him again, and his brain blinked out.
Auggie was back in Huntington Beach. He had been driving. He’d been trying to make his own version of the “Call Me, Maybe” videos that had gone viral. He’d been holding up the camera, singing. He’d been multitasking—that’s what he called it. His attention had slid to the traffic in front of him, then to the rearview mirror, then to the camera, all while he was still singing along with Carly Rae. He’d felt good. He’d felt splintered. His attention everywhere at once. He’d felt unstoppable. Then his light had turned red, and a sixty-eight-year-old woman in a Chrysler New Yorker Fifth Avenue had her light turn green, and she pulled out in front of him.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Theo was shouting.
Auggie flinched, came back, and tightened his hands on the wheel. Headlights were coming toward them. His first reaction was to jerk the wheel, but then he remembered the snow. He let the Malibu drift back into their lane; a moment later, a Mack truck shot past on the other side, horn blaring.
“What the fuck was that?” Theo shouted.
“I’m ok.”
“Auggie!”
“I’m ok!”
But he wasn’t ok. Some sort of essential wiring had come loose in his brain. Input just kept coming at him, and he couldn’t put it together. The agonized rasp of Theo’s breathing, that was one part of his brain. The flare of lights in the rearview mirror, that was another part. The ache in his side where he could still feel the muzzle digging into him, that was a part. The snow chittering against the glass, that was a part. The blur of the double yellow in front of him, that was a part. A sharp snap of air clearing the storm for a moment, that was a part. The pink-and-blue fluorescent of WESTPHALIA MOTEL – COLOR TV – AC – NO PETS. The hot strength of Theo’s hand on his neck.
“I can’t,” Auggie said. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
Auggie cut the wheel hard to the right; they turned onto a frontage road and drove behind a string of brick buildings—ENGINE OIL TIRES said one; THE LADY’S LANDAU TREATS AND OLD-FASHIONED CIVILITY said another. He killed the car. He killed the lights. He put his head on the steering wheel. Once, growing up, he had grabbed one of those vibrating back massagers and held onto it until his hand was numb, and this felt like that, only all over.
Theo’s breathing was getting sharper and faster until he finally shouted, “Fuck,” and punched the headliner. Then, quieter, “Are you ok?”
Head still on the wheel, Auggie nodded. He waited for Theo’s reaction: would he shout? Would he rip Auggie a new asshole? Fer would have asked him why he’d freaked the fuck out. Chuy would have told him he was
