Horace had barrelled into Crosstown with tires screaming and pistons drumming, a cackling demon in his head who punctuated each curve with the word, Faster. Though the men back at the school had been left many, many miles back and could never catch up with him, let alone know where he was headed.

. . . a party for my Aunt Clara and everyone came dressed so elegantly. Oh, it was quite a spectacle. One of my most pleasant memories. Why, people just don’t turn out that way nowadays. Such a pity, isn’t it?

Why, yes, ma’ am. It is.

Of course you’re really too young to remember, but there was a time. Ooooo . . .

Without the demon telling him, he had hurtled into the empty parking lot of the Crosstown theater. He turned the car off and stepped out, looking at the low building that sloped down into the woods. He clutched the gun tightly. The lights were on at the box office, illuminating a brightly colored poster that read:

RIDE THE FREEDOM STAR

A Musical

The saga of an

American Family.

Their trials through the

Revolution,

through the

Civil War

through the trials and hardship

through birth and death

through the tumults and tribulations of love

This is their story

The American Story

June 24–August 15

On the poster was a rendering of all the generations of the family, the settlers, the revolutionaries, the rebels, the businessmen, the planters, the statesmen, their arms all raised high bearing the tools of their trade—guns, swords, hoes. The United States flag ballooned dramatically from the left, the Stars and Bars to the right. The men were hearty and robust like comic book characters, their chests barrelled and near to bursting through their shirts; the women were either voluptuous or petite, big-boned and buxom or frail and feminine. They all had shiny white teeth and wide smiles. Off to the right of the group stood three black people. A man, shirtless, horse-muscled, and bronze, and a woman, her head beragged, both with an out-of-place grin on their faces. Standing beneath them was a young boy, his eyes much too big, the smile on his face lost somewhere in the conflagration of counterfeit glory.

He had worked here the summer before his senior year in high school, getting the job as best boy through recommendations from his English teacher, Mr. Phelps. His grandfather had been dubious: he mistrusted the number of white people Horace would be working with and the long hours. But he could not argue with the salary, which was more than Horace would have made cropping tobacco, though not a lot more. Reluctantly Ezekiel agreed. Horace had just gotten his driver’s license that spring, so he could drive himself to and from work, about twenty-five minutes from home. He began working two weeks after the summer vacation had begun.