She was already dizzy from the sickness in her chest. Her clothes were glued to her clammy skin. She’d thrown up twice in a plastic garbage bag, but where she’d missed, she’d spit up over the back seat of Lyle’s Mercedes. The car smelled like her puke, mixed with the nasty sweetness of whatever Deacon was smoking in the front seat.

She lay there, stretched out in the back, coughing, gagging, her chest hurting, wondering if she were going to die.

Then she was airborne. Metal hit metal. Tires squealed. She flew, rolling and slamming into the back of the front seat. Her head hurt. Her mouth bled. She found herself on the floor, staring at the roof of the car.

Deacon murmured something, like a curse or a prayer. ‘Oh, my God.’

He got out and left her. She heard his running footsteps on the highway. She was alone. She hacked, and phlegm caught in her throat and bubbled onto her lips. She had vomit in her hair. She was scared, and she wanted to be home.

‘Deacon?’ she called plaintively, but he didn’t answer. ‘Deacon!’

She heard strange noises on the road, like when they were camping and Lyle scraped a shovel over dirt to cover up a fire. She pushed out her tiny hands, feeling for the door handle. When she pulled the lever, the door unlatched, and she dragged herself into the humid night. Her brain spun when she stood up. She thought she would throw up again.

Peach looked for her brother. It was as if he had disappeared – but no, there he was, behind the car, twenty yards away. The moon made him look like a ghost. The highway was empty, and empty highways made her think of wolves and owls and alligators and other things that had teeth and claws.

‘Deacon? What are you doing?’

She shuffled toward him. Her feet were bare. The rocky shoulder poked at her skin. She wore only her little white nightgown, which flapped in the summer breeze.

‘What’s happening? I’m scared.’

He didn’t notice her at all. She got up really close to him, close enough to see his wild eyes and his mouth hanging open like a dog’s. He was breathing loud and sweating. He clenched and unclenched his fists. His hands were dirty.

‘Deacon?’

She looked down. Splatters of red shined near his feet, like a map broken up by lakes. A big lake and smaller lakes. They made a trail along the asphalt and the dirt shoulder and down into the thick grass of the gully.

‘Why is there so much blood?’

Her brother saw her for the first time, and his eyes widened. He sucked in his breath and bellowed at her. ‘FRUITY, GET BACK IN THE CAR!’

She shriveled in fear. ‘But Deacon, I—’

‘GET BACK IN THE CAR AND SHUT UP!’