“Where did you get them?” I asked her.

“That’s not the point, sweetie,” she replied.

“The box is already opened,” I said, inspecting it in the dark. “Some of them are missing, I think.”

“Frankie! Focus, please. Just keep them in case. I can tell you this with one hundred percent certainty. You do not want a baby at your age. Or . . . or three babies. Can you even imagine, Frankie? Three babies, all at once? You’re still just a kid. You don’t want that.”

“Okay, okay,” I finally said. I put the box under my pillow. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you for caring about me.”

“I do care about you, sweetie,” she said. “So much.”

“I know,” I said.

“I’m going to be in the kitchen, okay? I’m not going to sleep tonight, I don’t think. I think I might make a cake or something for you to give to Zeke’s mom? How does that sound?”

“Mom,” I said. “I’m so tired.”

“Good night, sweetie,” she finally said. “Go back to bed.”

After she left, I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us. I still wasn’t asleep. So I said it again, and again, until the world turned fuzzy, nothing mattered, and I was gone.

Six

NO ONE CARED ABOUT THE POSTERS. NOT RIGHT AWAY. BUT WE cared. And that’s why, the next morning, as soon as we were alone, we made three hundred more copies. The machine whirred and, with agonizing slowness, spit out copy after copy, the thing we had made together. The entire time, we touched the copier like we were laying hands on it, like it needed us for the miracle to happen.

As we drove around town, we tried to remember every single place we’d put up one of our posters. Had we put one on that particular telephone pole? Each time we saw one still up, we gasped, like they should have vaporized in direct sunlight. At the Creekside Market, while I posted one surreptitiously on the community bulletin board above the nightcrawlers and crickets, Zeke bought a detailed map of Coalfield, so we could mark every spot, to have an official record, to see how long some of them stayed up. It was the kind of obsession where, once we fell into it, we tried to be scientific, precise, but it was so warped by our desires that it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but us.

We drove over to the movie theater and an employee was taking down the wall of posters, his hands full of our art. I recognized the boy, one of my brothers’ friends. So I rolled down the window and called out for him.

“Jake!” I said, and Zeke got very nervous.