I could feel the world getting smaller and smaller, and that scared me because I’d already made myself pretty small to ensure none of these memories got out of me. To have the larger world shrinking down made it worse, to know that people were searching for you.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Frankie,” she tried, just as I was hanging up, “I think you need to talk about this. People died. It’s . . . it’s a big deal.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

And the memories sped up even more. And that made me angry, that they were moving too fast for me to even recognize those moments. I sat on the sofa. The room smelled fresh, like fabric softener, and I closed my eyes and I willed the memories to slow down. I made them go at the exact speed as it happened then, like I was stepping right back into it, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t let it get away from me.

Eight

THE NEXT DAY, I PICKED UP ZEKE AND WE DROVE AROUND TOWN. Zeke was playing a cassette he’d brought from Memphis, a mix by someone named DJ Squeeky, this slowed-down voice saying, over and over, “Burn, baby, burn, baby, burn, baby, burn.” It felt hypnotic, the way the whole world seemed wavy and shimmery, the windows down, the heat oppressive, and then we’d see another one of our posters, and everything would speed up for a second. My backpack was filled with more copies, but Zeke was worried, afraid that we’d get caught. We put a few in mailboxes of houses that were obviously empty, marking the spots on the map, but mostly we just drove.