“Kid?” Becky called, from somewhere on his right (No. Stop. She’s not moving. Get your head under control.) She sounded thirsty, too. Croaky. “Are you still with us?”

“Yes! Did you find my mom?”

“Not yet!” Cal shouted, thinking it really had been a while since they’d heard from her. Not that she was his main concern just then.

Twenty seconds.

“Kid?” Becky said. Her voice came from behind him again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Have you seen my dad?”

Cal thought: A new player. Terrific. Maybe William Shatner’s in here, too. Also Mike Huckabee . . . Kim Kardashian . . . the guy who plays Opie on Sons of Anarchy, and the entire cast of The Walking Dead.

He closed his eyes, but the moment he did, he felt dizzy, as if he were standing on the top of a ladder beginning to sway underfoot. He wished he hadn’t thought of The Walking Dead. He should have stuck with William Shatner and Mike Huckabee. He opened his eyes again and found himself rocking on his heels. He steadied himself with some effort. The heat made his face prickle with sweat.

Thirty. He’d been standing in this one spot for thirty seconds. He thought he should wait a full minute but couldn’t, and so he jumped for another look back at the church.

A part of him—a part he’d been trying with all his will to ignore—already knew what he was going to see. This part had been providing an almost jovial running commentary: Everything will have moved, Cal, good buddy. The grass flows, and you flow, too. Think of it as becoming one with nature, bro.

When his tired legs lofted him into the air again, he saw that the church steeple was now off to his left. Not a lot—just a little. He had drifted far enough to his right so that he was no longer seeing the front of that diamond-shaped sign but the silver aluminum back of it. Also, though he wasn’t sure, he thought it was all just a little farther away than it had been. As if he had backed up a few steps while he was counting to thirty.

Somewhere, the dog barked again: roop, roop. Somewhere a radio was playing. He couldn’t make out the song, just the thump of the bass. The insects thrummed their single lunatic note.

“Oh, come on,” Cal said. He had never been much for talking to himself—as an adolescent he’d cultivated a Buddhist-skateboarder vibe and had prided himself on how long he could serenely maintain his silence—but he was talking now, and hardly aware of it. “Oh, come the fuck on. This is . . . this is nuts.”

He was walking, too. Walking for the road—again, hardly without knowing it.

“Cal?” Becky shouted.

“This is just nuts,” he said again, breathing hard, shoving at the grass.