As Will thought that, the truly black despondent mood that had been curling around the edges of his mind suddenly overtook him. He didn’t even try to fight it, because he thought life was so … shitty, that nothing really mattered. At the same time, as this blackness clouded his thoughts, his feelings got faster and clearer in a particularly dark fashion. His despair accelerated and had its own dizzy excitement, and pulsated with energy and action. While all this was going on, so as not to frighten himself overmuch, Will thought almost airily that he’d make no decision. To hell with it. He’d leave it all to the fates. Suspense to the last moment. And even as he decided to leave it all open, Will was going out of the room, down the steps to the front of the house where his motorcycle waited in the driveway. Waited—he thought—like a black monster or like a knight’s rescuing steed. Which would it be?

He felt wild and free, devil-may-care, yet he was smiling inside himself like death, he thought; and liking the expression, he thought it again.

There was still some, not much, slush in the streets, which glistened wet, almost shining black in the bright sunlight. And the stores were like cutouts of cardboard to be knocked down like soggy playing cards. It was all sham. He was dead anyhow, no matter what he did, he told himself. He didn’t feel like other people did. He was unaffected, untouched.

The sound of the cycle came thundering up, disturbing the entire neighborhood, he hoped, rousing any people taking afternoon naps. The furious whirl of Will starting up death’s engine. The sound was so loud and he was traveling so fast that he laughed and cried at once, wearing no helmet so that the cold March wind could eat holes in his head. A great image! Why did he feel so damned creative at a time like this? He wished to hell he’d stop commenting on his own goddamned thoughts.

He stopped at a traffic light and decided to ride slower so that the cops wouldn’t stop him for breaking some stupid traffic rule. Grinning coldly, he hit the highway out of town and forgot about driving slowly. The speedometer said 80. There was a bridge, an open mesh affair, very dangerous when wet, and he headed toward it. This wasn’t going to be a suicide, but a test. A contest. He’d hit the bridge as fast as he could go. If the cycle crashed and he died—well, his problems were over. If not, then he’d take it as a sign that someone or something wanted him to live, and that he had a place in the universe, even if he hadn’t found it yet.

Shit. He was losing the edge of his anger and he wanted to sustain it.