“Gone?” Del sat back down, rubbed his head like it hurt. PTSD, Cyrus always said. Jody reached to hold onto his sleeve, but he batted her hand away.

Izzy walked up the steps and stood on the sagging floorboards. “I thought you might have heard from him.”

“Hasn’t come by in a while,” Del said. “Figured he was too busy with his work and all.” Did Izzy detect a snort?

“I hope Cyrus is okay,” Jody said. She was clutching at her own sleeves now.

“Anyone been around asking after him? Like any of Joe’s old friends or something?” Izzy realized she was imitating the rhythms and cadence of their speech. A survival mechanism learned in childhood, a way to blend in when she felt uncertain or afraid.

Del finished his Coke, tossed the can to the ground, and crushed it with his cowboy boot. “Joe’s a good boy,” Del said. “Cyrus, too. Joe just got in with the wrong crowd.”

“I know,” Izzy said. “That’s why I was wondering—”

“We love our boys,” Jody said. She looked like she might start crying. “We made some mistakes, but we love them. They’re going to make something of themselves. Even Joe.”

“Is there anyone you think I should talk to?” Izzy could feel her throat tighten.

“Maybe ask your mom and dad?” Jody said.

“Why them?” Izzy’s parents and Cyrus avoided each other as much as possible. Larry had never approved of him, ever since he’d gotten Leanne’s “little girl” pregnant. Izzy losing the baby hadn’t helped; Leanne admitted later she’d wanted a grandchild. “But out here by the Sea, they all die,” she’d mumbled, and then refused to explain what she meant.

“I think I saw him over there the other day,” Jody said.

Izzy smelled selenium and phosphate wafting in from the cadaverous beach. “Let me know if you hear from him.”

“You, too,” said Jody. “We love our boys…”

◆◆◆

Slab City, or The Slabs, once a California Badlands marine base, was now abandoned. Slabbers like Larry and Leanne had turned their back on society, infiltrated the area, and set up camp. He had rigged running water, electricity, and a sewage system, though the area as a whole had none of these things. He believed in free land, free art, and anarchy, “which is by definition free.” Although the area was considered “lawless,” the community had its own kind of laws, and, overall, the vibe was mostly respectful. In spite of this, Izzy had been wanting to leave there from as far back as she could remember.

On the way to her parents’ trailer, Izzy stopped at Alma’s Trading Post, a kind of one-woman, outdoor flea market. Alma knew a lot about what went on around town. When Izzy arrived, she heard a whistle and looked up to see Alma perched in her tree house like a wizened bird.

“Is that Izzy?” Alma had already started down the rope ladder, spry for an oldster. She stomped across the yard full of car parts, broken furniture, chipped plates, and plastic toys, and she stood in front of Izzy, akimbo elbows piercing the dusty air.