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It was her turn to point, not up but down.
(once there was a magician who had a hat like that his name was Mysterio)
(and you hung spoons on the ceiling)
She nodded but didn’t raise her head. She was still studying the hat.
(you need to get rid of it)
(how)
(burn it Mr. Freeman says he quit smoking but he still does I could smell it in the truck he’ll have matches)
“You have to,” she said. “Will you? Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
(I love you Uncle Dan)
(love you too)
She hugged him. He put his arms around her and hugged her back. As he did, her body became
rain. Then mist. Then gone.
10
On the back stoop of a house in Anniston, New Hampshire, in a dusk that would soon deepen to
night, a little girl sat up, got to her feet, and then swayed, on the edge of a faint. There was no chance
of her falling down; her parents were there at once. They carried her inside together.
“I’m okay,” Abra said. “You can put me down.”
They did, carefully. David Stone stood close, ready to catch her at the slightest knee-buckle, but
Abra stood steady in the kitchen.
“What about Dan?” John asked.
“He’s fine. Mr. Freeman smashed up his truck—he had to—and he got a cut”—she put her hand to
the side of his face—“but I think he’s okay.”
“And them? The True Knot?”
Abra raised a hand to her mouth and blew across the palm.
“Gone.” And then: “What is there to eat? I’m really hungry.”
11
Fine might have been a bit of an overstatement in Dan’s case. He walked to the truck, where he sat in
the open driver’s side door, getting his breath back. And his wits.
We were on vacation, he decided. I wanted to visit my old stomping grounds in Boulder. Then we came up
here to take in the view from Roof O’ the World, but the campground was deserted. I was feeling frisky and bet
Billy I could drive his truck straight up the hill to the lookout. I was going too fast and lost control. Hit one of
the support posts. Really sorry. Damn fool stunt.
He would get hit with one hell of a fine, but there was an upside: he would pass the Breathalyzer
with flying colors.
Dan looked in the glove compartment and found a can of lighter fluid. No Zippo—that would be
in Billy’s pants pocket—but there were indeed two books of half-used matches. He went to the hat
and doused it with the lighter fluid until it was soaking. Then he squatted, touched a match, and
flicked it into the hat’s upturned bowl. The hat didn’t last long, but he moved upwind until it was
nothing but ashes.
The smell was foul.
When he looked up, he saw Billy trudging toward him, wiping at his bloody face with his sleeve.