Katie nodded, took her foot off the accelerator, and turned the wheel slightly to the right. As the right tires transitioned from asphalt to gravel, stones could be heard kicking up into the wheel wells.

The Arrival, continuing to advance, moved over onto the shoulder.

“Christ on a trampoline,” Bruce said. “Get back on the road! Crank it hard! Head to the other shoulder!”

Katie spun the wheel, the back end of the car fishtailing, gravel spraying out from the rear right wheel. She aimed the car for the left shoulder, tromping on the gas at the same time. The massive car lumbered from one side of the road to the other like a whale with wheels.

The Arrival mirrored Katie’s moves, and continued to close the distance.

Twenty

Lillian Bridgeman sat in her wheelchair and watched the cars and people go by. It was a way to pass the time. It was about all she had these days.

Lillian was stationed at the end of the driveway, a good place from which to observe the world. Well, not the world exactly, but wasn’t Gilbert Street, in the town of Garrett, on Garrett Island, part of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, within the magnificent United States of America, as good a representation of the world as anyone could want? Didn’t Gilbert Street have everything anyone could ever hope to see? You didn’t have to go to the big city to watch life’s dramas played out for you. They happened right here.

Just this week, one of the McClatchen kids from down the street had taken a tumble off his skateboard and scraped his knee. Anthony, his name was. Eight, nine years old. Lillian had called out to him, asked if he was okay as he got back on his feet. He hobbled his way over to her, close enough that she could see the ragged skin and the blood dripping down his leg. He was biting his lip, trying not to cry.

“That could get infected,” she said. “You need to go home, get that cleaned up and bandaged.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Anthony said.

“Get your mom to do it,” she said.

“She’s at work.”

Lillian frowned. “Who’s watching out for you all day?”

The boy shrugged.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, and then gave him very specific instructions about where in her house he would find what she needed to patch him up. He was afraid, at first, confessing later that he had never forgotten the story of Hansel and Gretel and the witch that tried to eat them. But finally he was persuaded to head inside and get the kit. Once he returned with it, she leaned forward in her chair and fixed him up.

There was a bit of drama for you.