Before he set out for John’s house, Roy wanted to time himself with the stopwatch. It would help him to know how long it would take, how long he’d have to hold on to get through the list: break the window, open the door, walk in—six steps at the most—lift it from the wall, six steps back, The End. His guts cramped grossly if he tried to imagine doing it, seeing the street sign, what the door would look like, a broken window, John’s house. OhJohn’sHouse. The place where he lived. His nice things. How much John would hate Roy for being there.

But if it was just a number of seconds, if he could just think of it like that . . .

He couldn’t find it. The stopwatch had been in the passenger seat. He was sure of it. He checked under the lace pillow, under the plastic bags from the convenience store. He shook crumbs all over the seats from a chip bag and one from pork rinds in case the stopwatch had slid into one of those by accident. This was taking too long. Sweat slipped down his back and glued his hair to his neck. The air felt like he was sucking it through a wet rag. Way too long. Roy started counting as he piled his things on the asphalt, checking everything on the way out, just to double-check the same stuff as he threw it all back in.

Beating the clock was an old trick to keep himself focused, to push worry aside so it wouldn’t distract him so much. It kept fear a little bit further away. Like garlic for a vampire. That’s what his mother had said. She’d taught him the little habit after she’d gotten sick, to help him get through his chores so he didn’t get in trouble with his grandmother. It only took ninety-six seconds to load the sheets into the machine and start the laundry. She bled a lot in those last days. He was eleven.

The next best thing to timing with the watch was counting. It put his mind a little steadier. So he kept counting, then and now. He’d once made it to four hundred and nine when his grandmother beat him with a broom handle.

The sun was searing as he rummaged in the back seat. Four hundred ten, four hundred eleven . . .