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The moon in the sky punches silver against the blue-black night. Harley turns to Rog who looks pale, stunned. He’s staring off into the dark. A deep red flower of blood blossoms on Rog’s shoulder. His legs buckle, head tilts back and he starts to fall. Harley dives to catch his friend.
“Rog, what the fuck?” he hears himself say.
Another shot. A sharp, nasty sound that seems to slice the air and leave it vibrating.
Pain in his arm like someone hit him with a fiery sledgehammer.
Then darkness.
21
Three Days Before Christmas
Think, Lolly, think!
He’s coming, moving fast. Will he break the windows of his own car to get to me? I can’t see his face, just the twisted ugly Santa mask with its long yellowing beard. But yeah, I’m guessing he will.
My heart is an engine, and everything I ate and drank is roiling in my stomach. I’m going to be sick.
Think, Lolly, think.
The drive I realize is on a steep incline. He stumbles off the porch, and the seat belt is cold in my hand as I click it on. Then, I put the truck—luckily an older model—in neutral, release the parking brake, and jerk my weight back and forth, as hard as I can.
He’s just getting to me as the car starts to roll backward.
“What the fuck?” he yells. “No, no, no—you crazy bitch.”
The car rolls backward, picking up speed. The steering wheel is locked so I can’t control where it goes as he starts running after it. I watch him and it’s almost funny, Santa in blue jeans and a beat-up jacket in a full sprint. He hits a patch of ice and goes flying, sprawled out on the drive.
Faster, faster it rolls, and I pray that it makes it all the way to the road. And when I get there, someone will be there, someone will see me. There will be help and I’ll get away.
The crash is jarring. The car smashes into a huge oak and comes to an abrupt stop. I whiplash back and forth, knocking my head against the steering wheel. No air bags. The world spins. Santa is still lying on the ground, unmoving. I lean over and puke up everything I ate. I see stars floating before my eyes, a warm river of blood flows from what must be a cut over my eyes. I reach a tentative hand to the cut and when I pull back my hand there’s so much blood.
Don’t you dare pass out, Lolly Morris. Don’t you dare.
I don’t.
I push the door open and climb out into the frigid cold, my bare feet on the ice and snow. Everything aches. I’m weak. But I run and I keep running.
22
“Dad! What are you doing?”
He sways like a great oak in a stiff wind, and I try to steady him. Badger is close behind me and together we get my dad to his recliner in the living room where he sinks heavily. The Christmas tree lights illuminate the room and the fire has burned down to embers.
“Do we need to call someone?” asks Badger.
“His doctor’s number is by the phone,” I say. “Leave a message with the service.”
There’s a light tapping at the window; a heavy snow has started to fall. The bomb cyclone forecast to start tonight and rage until morning has begun.
“Dad,” I say, kneeling down beside him.
His eyes are wild, face lined and pale. This stroke, it has aged him so much, taken all his strength and agency. And it’s my fault, isn’t it? All the stress he’s been under for the last ten years. If I’d listened, if I’d stayed away from Evan Handy, maybe we’d all be in a different place. Anger, sadness duke it out in my chest. He grabs my arm hard, opens his mouth. It’s painful to watch him struggle to communicate.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I tell him. “Take your time.”
He shakes his head, looking over my shoulder. I turn and Badger is standing there, watching us.
