Page 75 of Brimstone Hollow

“After everything I’ve seen here?” I say. “Hell, I’m sleeping with my gun.”

“Good,” he says. I listen to him take a long breath and then he says, “Watch your six.”

“You too,” I say.

We hang up and I grab my phone and keys and—fully armed—head out the door. I barely run a couple of miles before I feel too tired to continue. My days and nights have gotten mixed up and my body is used to runningbeforea day’s work, not at the end of it. Still, I push through until I’m three miles in and, conveniently, standing in front of the Cherry Dairy.

I’m surprised to find Will in the take-out line, trying to juggle two to-go trays of coffee and staring at the big bags still on the pick-up counter.

“You need a hand?” I ask.

“Oh! Thank you!” Will says, relieved. I pick up the heavy, greasy bags of food.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why all the grub?”

“It’s the miracle,” he says with a soft, hopeful smile. “Most of the congregation have elected to stay and keep vigil near Brother Ezra’s grave site. Not only that, some people have come from out of town! It really is such a wonderful outpouring of faith. It’s beautiful to see after so much… after so much death.”

He seems truly optimistic, his eyes glittering with a mixture of anxious relief and hope.

“Brother Ezra’s ministry meant so much to so many people,” he says, his voice breaking. “I just… I want to believe that somethinggoodcan come from all the evil this community has witnessed.”

I help Will load everything into his car and watch him drive away before I trudge back to the take-out window and order a country ham biscuit and iced coffee. Neither Frankie, nor Crystal, nor Zelda are in sight so I eat while leaning against the exterior wall of the Dairy, the sun-warmed brick against my back. Standing there, in the sun, lulled into a calm by the warm light and the buzz of cicadas and the hum of business in the Dairy, my eyelids droop.

“Shit,” I say, my head snapping up. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

I walk back to the motel, drinking the iced coffee on the way, and by the time I get there I’m zombie walking, barely shuffling one foot in front of the other. I lock all the locks behind me, push a chair against the door, and fall straight onto the bed, running clothes, gun, and all. I don’t even take off my shoes.

TWENTY-ONE

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day…

THE SINGING HITS MEall at once. The voices surround me, envelop me, uplift me.

I open my eyes and I’m standing in the huge white tent that houses the revival. It’s hot. Unbearably hot.

This is memory, as much as dream.

As solid and well formed and hidden as any treasure. Any secret.

It’s almost August, more than two months since my mom left. I’ve become my father’s little sidekick, both of us feral and unkempt and truant. My hair is matted and my shoes are too small and, most of all, I’m hungry. School is starting in a week, and the night before, I’d been out late with my dad. We’d been at the carnival until they closed up. Riding a rickety spinning ride, screaming with delight each time it seemed I would be flung from the ride into the night sky.

On the way home, driving with my father down the twisting backroads that led to our house, it was like he wanted to recapture the feeling of the ride. We’d both squealed with unhinged laughter while he took one blind curve after another. Faster. Faster. The back wheel sometimes hitting the shoulder. Spitting gravel.

And then the deer appeared. As if out of nowhere. A magic trick.

It was just a tawny flash in my vision. My dad hit the brakes, turned the wheel. And we went, just like the carnival ride, round and round. Until we finally stopped, both of us gasping.

When we looked up, the deer was gone. Like it had never even been there.

And my dad laughed even harder.

“You ever see anything like that, Annie-Girl?” he said, gleefully slapping the wheel.

I’d laughed too. Surprising myself. And I’d felt some horrible knowledge well up inside me.

And there may I, though vile as he,