“He’s a good guy, Quinn.”
“Yes,” Cigar said.
“He wants you to tell me about the little boy.”
“Little boy? He’s next to you.”
Astrid fought the urge to turn and look. No one was beside her. “I don’t see him.”
Cigar nodded as though he knew this, as though it was a given fact. “He’s a little boy. But he’s big, too. He can touch the sky.”
Astrid choked out the words, “Can he?”
“Oh, yes. Little boy is better than an angel, you know; he has the light so bright it shines through you. Tseeeew! Right through you.”
“And his name is Petey?”
Cigar was silent. He lowered his head. Again it was as if he was listening. But maybe he was listening only to the terrible nightmare screams in his own head.
Then, with perfect lucidity that was stranger in its way than all his tics and sudden eruptions and weird gestures, Cigar said, “He was Pete.”
Astrid sobbed.
“That was his body name.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, too paralyzed even to wipe away the tears. “Can I … Can he hear me?”
“He can hear … anything!” And again the mad cackle, an almost ecstatic sound.
“I’m sorry, Petey,” Astrid said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Little boy is free now,” Cigar said in a singsong voice. “He’s playing a game.”
“I know,” Astrid said. “Petey? You can’t play that game. You’re hurting people.”
Once again Cigar lowered his head to listen. But even though Astrid waited a long time, he said nothing more.
So in a quiet voice Astrid said, “Petey. The barrier is turning dark. Can you stop it? Do you have the power to stop it?”
Cigar laughed. “Little boy is gone.”
And Astrid could feel the truth of it. The sense of something unseen looking at her was gone.
Sanjit did not travel alone. He had intended to, and Lana had said he should, but by the time he got onto the highway heading in the direction of the turnoff to the lake, he was in a gaggle of kids.
People were fleeing Perdido Beach. Sanjit could see at least twenty, arrayed in groups of two or three. A cluster of three had formed around him. Two twelve-year-old girls, Keira and Tabitha, and a little boy of maybe three with the very grown-up-sounding name of Mason.
Mason was trying to be a good little soldier, but just a half mile out of town he was already stumbling on very tired legs. The girls were hardier—they’d both put in time working the fields, so they were strong and had the stamina for long hours on the road. But Mason was a little kid hauling a backpack filled with his favorite things—some broken toys, a picture book called Owl Babies, a framed picture of his family.
The girls pushed their things, as well as some food and water, in a Ralphs grocery cart with one bad wheel. It rattled as they went. Sanjit knew it would never survive the dirt-and-gravel road that led to the lake.
Mason complicated matters further by insisting on wearing a plastic Iron Man helmet that covered his whole head. He had a small paring knife in a woman’s white belt.
Lana had impressed on Sanjit a need for speed when she’d handed him the grubby envelope with the note inside. And he knew he could outpace his three fellow travelers. But somehow, having fallen in with them, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead he ended up hefting Mason onto his back.
“Are you and Lana, like, together?” Tabitha asked.
“Um… Yes. I guess you could say that.”
“I heard she’s mean,” Keira offered.
“No,” Sanjit protested. “She’s tough. That’s all.”
“You know who’s really mean?” Tabitha asked. “Turk. He pushed me once and I fell down and skinned both my knees.”
“Sorry that—”
“And then I went to see Lana and she told me to go wash off in the ocean and not bother her.” Tabitha lowered her voice and added, “Only she said it meaner, with a bunch of cusswords.”
Sanjit resisted the grin that wanted to spread across his face. Yep. That would be Lana, all right. “Maybe she was just busy at the time.”
It was good to have some silly gossip to distract them all. And the two girls seemed to have an endless stream: who liked who, who didn’t like who, who might like who.
Sanjit didn’t know half the people they were talking about, but it was still better than looking up at the sky and watching the stain grow higher and the ragged circle of light grow smaller.
What were they going to do when the light went out?
As if reading his thoughts, or maybe just noticing his worried expression, Keira said, “Sam Temple can make lights.”
“With his hands,” Tabitha explained.
“Like lamps.” Then without prompting Keira patted Mason on his Iron Man helmet and said, “Don’t worry, Mase: that’s why we’re going to the lake.”
At which point Mason began to cry.
Sanjit couldn’t blame him. Nothing sounded hollower than a reassurance in this place.
Once he delivered his message to Sam he would have to find his way back to Perdido Beach. Would there be any light at all by then? How was he going to get back to Lana across ten miles of emptiness in the dark?
One thing he was sure of: he would go back.
“I have to poop,” Mason said.
Sanjit let him slide down.
More delay. Less likelihood of any light for the homeward trip.