"Lucky for us," Arthur said from the garage. He rearranged the crammed boxes in the back of the wagon. Marty sat on the concrete, continuing to pick halfheartedly through his toys.

"This is hard," he said.

"You think you have problems, fellah," Arthur said. "What about my books?"

"Are we just going to lock up?" Francine asked, standing in the door from the garage to the house. She carried a box filled with disks and papers—the notes she had made for her book.

"Just like we're going on vacation," Arthur said. "So we're atypical."

"It is strange, isn't it, that everybody's staying home, now of all times?" She crammed the box into a spare corner of the station wagon.

"How many people really understand what's happening?" he asked.

"That's a point."

"The kids at school understand," Marty said. "They know the world's going to end."

"Maybe," Arthur said. Again, trying to reassure them hurt him. The world is going to end. You know it, and they know it.

"Maybe everybody wants to be together," Francine said, returning to the kitchen. She brought out a box of canned and dried food. "They want to be someplace familiar."

"We don't need that, do we?" Marty asked, shoving aside a pile of unwanted metal and plastic robots and spacecraft.

"All we need is each other," Arthur agreed.

In the office, he reached into the back of the closet's upper shelf and took out the wooden box containing the spiders. It felt peculiarly light. He opened the box. It was empty. For a moment, he stood with the box in his hand, and for some reason he could not understand he smiled. They had more work to do. He glanced at his watch. Wednesday. Ten a.m.

Time to be on the road.

"All packed?" he asked.

Marty surveyed the pile of rejected toys and clutched a single White Owl cigar box filled with the chosen. The cigar box had come down from Arthur's father, who had had it from his father. It was tattered and reinforced with tape and represented continuity. Marty treasured the box in and of itself.

"Ready," the boy said, climbing into the back seat. "Are we going to sleep in a lot of motels?"

"You got it," Arthur said.

"Can I buy some toys where we go?"

"I don't see why not."

"And some pretty rocks? If I find them, I mean."

"Nothing over a ton," Francine said.

"The boulder that broke the Buick's back," Arthur said, going into the house for a final check.

Good-bye, bedroom, good-bye, office, good-bye, kitchen. Refrigerator still full of food. Good-bye, knotty-pine paneling, elevated porch, backyard, and mid plum tree. Good-bye, smooth and singing river. He passed Gauge's wicker bed in the service porch and felt a lump in his throat.

"Good-bye, books," he whispered, looking at the shelves in the living room. He locked the front door, but did not turn the dead bolt.

Chapter 52

52

February 24