I stayed up against the wall, and when I got to the front corner of the house, I looked across the road to the McVays’. There were no lights on at the road, and I couldn’t see any through the trees. I hadn’t seen Wilson at the fireworks. Maybe they were already asleep. I sprinted as fast as I could across the road to the end of his driveway, then went into the woods between his house and the neighbor’s. I knew there was a shed with a carport on that side; I’d seen Wilson working in it. If his motorcycle was there, it meant he was too, and I would ring the bell. As I got closer, I could see a single utility light on at the side of the house.

I nearly walked right into the shed before I saw it in the darkness. I leaned against the back of it, still holding the Marksman. I thought I smelled cigarette smoke and wondered if Wilson was in the shed, but there was a window next to me, and it was black inside. The driveway was empty. Wilson’s dad’s Buick wasn’t there either.

I heard an engine in the distance—a motorcycle decelerating, taking the turn from Forge Mountain Drive, coming down the hill. There was a rustle somewhere close, maybe a cat or something under the shed or on the other side. I stayed still, listening. I thought I heard a cough, like someone clearing their throat before spitting. Then the light was coming up the driveway through the trees. Wilson. I put the gun in my back pocket. The motorcycle passed where I was crouching and turned at the top of the driveway. I walked toward it along the side of the shed, slowly, my hand trailing against the wood cladding. Wilson’s headlight blinded me, and I stopped. There were two people on the bike. The second person was too big to be Ellen. My eyes adjusted to the glare, and I saw that it was Thomas. I was about to shout to them, but they were both looking at something else. Their stillness stopped me.

Against the headlight, a dark shadow fell like a tree across the lawn and me. Someone was moving toward them, his shadow enormous in the headlights: Barbie Man. He must have been on the other side of the shed, waiting. He stepped out in front of them, and I wanted to scream Drive away, Wilson! Run, Thomas! Why weren’t they doing anything? He walked toward them. His left hand was still in the sling, but in his right hand he had a gun.

“Kill the bike!” he shouted.

The engine cut. The headlight spluttered out, and all of them were just dark shapes, outlined by the dim light attached to the house.

“Off. Fucking kneel.”