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“What’s your name, friend?”
“Why do you want to know?” Gonzo asks.
The guy holds up his hands. “I only want to help, friend.”
“I’m Cameron,” I say. “And this is Gonzo.”
“I’m Daniel.” The guy shakes my hand, which also hurts. He introduces the others, including the hippie girl, whose name is Ruth. “I’m just gonna move stuff around, get the van ready. Be right back.”
Gonzo grabs hold of my arm and my skin screams in protest. “Cam, dude, I don’t think we should get in the van. We don’t know these guys. They could be serial killers.”
“They’re not serial killers. They have matching shirts.”
“Think: who has vans, huh? Soccer moms and serial killers. They mentioned a compound. And ‘getting the van ready.’ Ready for what?”
“You’re tripping.”
“Dude. I’m not getting in that van.”
The dust on the road stings my eyes. I’m hungry and tired and scared. “Then stay here. I’m going with them.”
A smiling Daniel ambles over and puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you, Cameron.”
“We’ve got snacks in the van,” Ruth says. “I’ll bet you could use a snack.”
They belt me into a seat in back. Gonzo’s still on the side of the road, looking panicked. “Cameron, don’t you think we should wait here till your aunt and uncle come to pick us up? You know, your aunt and uncle, who are supposed to meet us out here any minute?”
“We can have them pick you up at the CESSNAB,” Daniel says. I don’t know what a CESSNAB is and I don’t care. Right now, I just want to drink a vat of water and lie down for about two days. I can barely hold my head up.
Daniel extends a hand to Gonzo. “You coming, friend?”
Ruth smiles. “We’ll take you bowling.”
Gonzo’s revving as hard as the engine, like he doesn’t know whether to be more freaked out about getting in the van with a bunch of possible serial killers or to take his chances alone by the side of a road in Godonlyknowswhere, Mississippi. I decide that Possible Serial Killers would make a good band name. I promise myself if I’m cured, I’ll start that band.
“Okay,” Gonzo says, climbing in at last. “But I want to sit by the door.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Of What Happens When I Bowl a Perfect Strike and Learn Not to Hurt My Happiness
Once we hit the road, the Possible Serial Killers start to sing a song I don’t know. Something about showing your happiness and loving your happiness and defending your happiness. One of the guys tries to ad-lib some “oh yeah’s” until Ruth frowns and tells him it’s “a little competitive” and “off message” and he stops.
I polish off a huge bag of pretzels and a big bottle of water, then fall asleep. When I wake up, we’re driving up to a sprawling, glass-and-stone building on about a gazillion acres of land. At the far end is a bank with three drive-thru lanes. Everything is new. You can practically smell the paint. And out on the lawn is a big sign that reads CHURCH OF EVERLASTING SATISFACTION AND SNACK-’N’-BOWL.
The van pulls into a freshly paved parking lot. The white lines are sharp. The whole place seems to sparkle. Gonzo’s the first one out when the doors slide open. He’s still in serial killer mode. Daniel gives me a hand getting to the door of the building. He punches in an elaborate alarm code and we walk in past two uniformed security guards. Daniel calls to them by name.
“Hey, Peter. Hey, Matthew.”
They wave and get back to their heavy task of watching the mostly empty parking lot.
“How are you feeling?” Daniel asks.
“Better. Tired.”
Daniel smiles, pats my back. “You’ve come to the right spot for healing. You’ll see.”
At first, I think we’re in a mall. There’s a food court with about six different kinds of cuisine. Fake ferns. A water fountain. And a bunch of stores. They all have CESSNAB in the name. CESSNAB Shirts. CESSNAB Tunes. CESSNAB Sports. CESSNAB Kids. CESSNAB Tech. There’s even a CESSNAB Tattoo, where you can get forty-two variations on CESSNAB in different fonts or a bowling ball with wings on the side.
