“Mayday. Mayday. This is Big Red. Cloaking device has malfunctioned.”
It was raining on the day of my brother’s funeral, but thousands, mostly women, lined the streets as we rode past. I spotted a banner that read “We love you, Nick.” It was probably a leftover from Glastonbury ’92.
There wasn’t anything to LaGrange, just houses and trailers and ratty old stores and ratty old people. There were folks like me and Momma and folks who avoided people like me and Momma.
Once, I lost everything. That may have been my only reason; that would have been enough.
Jean climbs the crane’s ladder. Gusts from the west try to bully him, but he ignores them. He can move faster than his panic, and his fear, and his thoughts. That is the trick. That is Parkour.
Still wearing jail slippers and the clothes she’d slept in, Nancy Jackson took a seat in front of a huge mahogany desk.
She was superhuman. Her moves defied commonly accepted laws of physics, and everything she did, from a tiny flicker of her fingers to elaborate, daring tumbling passes, was masterfully executed.