Chapters (65)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Part Two
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Part Three
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- About the Publisher
“Yeah,” said Ruth, following me to the back parking lot. “I mean, where else could it be?” she added as we scanned the small row of cars by the alley. “I’m the one who drove her to the damn hospital.”
Twenty-Nine
Digger
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2002
Morning
Cally was in my way, standing in the kitchen area, chugging water from the jug. She was blocking the shelves I needed to get to.
“Move,” I said, bending down. “I gotta get in there.” I reached around her into the shelves. Nothing but pans and plates and cans of Dinty Moore.
“What are you looking for?”
“Gas can,” I said as I walked out the door.
Cally followed me and stood in the doorway. “You think it’s out of gas?” she said.
“What the fuck else would I need a gas can for?”
“Could be the battery,” she added, then closed the door.
“Won’t know unless I try,” I said, mimicking her voice, not caring whether or not she heard me.
I fished around in the shed and had to take out some shit: a shovel, some planks of plywood, a deflated, frozen inner tube, a cardboard box, and a coil of heavy-duty extension cord.
When I got back inside, the kettle was whistling.
“I’m making hot chocolate,” said Cally.
“Uh-huh,” I said, and I watched her pour hot water into a mug. “I found the gas can.” I held it up to show her, but she wasn’t impressed.
“I was thinking if you had a generator, you could charge the battery,” she said.
“I know, but I’m getting gas first.”
“Is there a leak? Because you put gas in Friday night.”
“In fucking Rush City or wherever, a hundred miles or so away,” I said. “And then we drove around a bunch yesterday.”
“I’m just saying,” said Cally.
“I need your credit card.”
“What for?”
“What does it look like?” I picked up the gas can and threw it down. It made a hollow bouncing noise. The baby cried.
“Thanks a lot,” said Cally. “Now the baby’s up, and the place smells like gas.”
“Just give me the card. Where is it?” I picked through her pile of clothes. Found her wallet and grabbed the Visa. “I’m going to the gas station.”
“Lemme come with you,” she said, pulling on her coat and grabbing the baby. “They might need my signature!”
I was out the door and halfway down the hill when I heard her yelling behind me. I turned around, and wouldn’t you know, she was following me, her coat hanging open, wearing the boots I’d loaned her, and stepping in each of my footsteps. She had the baby in the car carrier, covered with a blanket.
I stopped to wait at the bottom of the hill. The main road hadn’t been plowed. Finally, Cally caught up. Her face was red.
“You have ice on your face,” she said.