Lincoln walks up to the tank and does the same. The gas is sloshing to a still and it looks black and deep through the opening, as deep as a well. He breathes in through his nose, holds it, and breathes again. Lincoln stands straight. His head feels porous, bigger than before. He exhales, as if some great truth had been casually disclosed. Burt huffs again, miming the breath-holding technique of pot-smokers, the relaxed concentration of his father and uncles.

“Mossy nose. Earthy undertones.”

Lincoln giggles and takes another turn. The light hits his eyes more strongly, cutting through the trees. He squints and wipes his hands on his jeans. He thinks this is no worse than what Simon has done, though there is a sharpness to Simon, an accuracy that Lincoln knows he has not dulled by huffing.

This has become their ritual. Their daily exercise. A bumpy road out and a smooth, smooth ride back. It is the only way Lincoln can get up the nerve to venture off the road into the woods. He knows he has no purchase here. Nothing on which to pin his uncertainty. This is the only way he can mediate the possibility of finding Simon’s body in the corner of some swamp. What if? What if they find him?

“Shit,” says Burt. “He ain’t dead. My dad saw him down on First Avenue, near the bus station.”

Lincoln is stunned.

“Who cares, anyway? After what he did.” Burt shakes his head and lowers his nose to the tank.

“What’d he do?”

Burt stands and wipes his nose as the mucus thins and drips out.

“You don’t know? He’s why you ain’t got no daddy.”

Lincoln starts toward him, ready to lay in. Burt waves him off.

“You don’t believe me? Corral Boo or Ned. They’ll tell you.” He staggers off and pisses against a tree.

Lincoln huffs once more and caps the tank. He kicks the three-wheeler to life, and before Burt can zip up he turns it around and guns down the trail.

He doesn’t remember the conversation. How he plied Boo with beer, made sure the spark-plug wires were loose enough so the car wouldn’t start. He knew better than to ask. He knew enough just to state it. To make Boo fight the accusation. Boo wasn’t up for it. Lincoln remembers squinting from the gas, though it was dim in the house. He narrowed his eyes and focused on Boo. He doesn’t remember much, just Boo’s fumbling words and Betty’s quiet sobs coming from the corner of the couch behind him. She tried to touch him, but he evaded her. He knows. Boo apologized, stumbling in the rooms of his words, banging into corners, trying to explain why, to make Lincoln understand.

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