Normally, he would have gotten upset about Tony taking the better seat: older brothers rode in the front; younger babies went in the back. But there were things more important than that right now, so he stayed where he was on the sidewalk, the phone unused in his hand.

He was wondering what he’d seen—

Mrs. Alonzo leaped back so far, she nearly ended up in traffic, a minivan honking its horn as it barely missed her.

She ran over and snatched the phone as well as his arm. “Get in the car, Joey—”

“What is it? Is it a dead guy?” Jeez, what if it was a pirate—holy shit!

Mrs. Alonzo put her phone to her ear as she dragged him to her Lexus. “Yes, this is an emergency. There’s a man in a car in front of the McCready Funeral Home on St. Francis. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with him, but he’s behind the wheel and he doesn’t seem to be moving. . . . I have small children with me and I don’t want to open the door—right. . . .”

Small children. God, he hated that small-children stuff. He was the one who’d found the guy, after all. How many grown-ups had tooled by on their way to work and not seen it? Biked by? Run by?

It was his dead guy.

“My name is Margarita Alonzo. Yes, I’ll stay until the paramedics and police get here.”

Okay. This was officially the best morning in the history of his life, Joey thought as he jumped into the backseat—which had the best view, as it turned out.

As Mrs. Alonzo got in and locked all the doors, he imagined the three of them being here until noon, one o’clock. Maybe they’d get a Happy Meal for lunch. He really hoped the police didn’t rush—

The bummer of all bummers hit him when he heard Mrs. Alonzo say, “Sarah? I have your boys, and they’re okay. But there’s a little problem and I need you to come pick them up.”

Joey put his head down on his arm.

Knowing his luck, his mother would zoom to the scene and get here before he found out about the dead pirate in the front seat of that car.

Ruined. Just ruined.

And they were probably going to get to school right in time for the assembly.

As Matthias slept behind the wheel of his car, he dreamed of the night Jim Heron had saved his life over and over again. The events that had led up to the bomb and the long, painful trek back to relative health played and replayed in an endless loop through his mind, as if the needle on his old-fashioned mental record player was stuck.