The drunk Troy was back. He nodded at his son. And the Troys, one by one, came out of the bar, a slow, staggering army of them, following the women back home.

49

Diane and Jackie and Josh stood near Diane’s burgundy Ford hatchback, with its recently crumpled fender.

“Quick question,” Jackie said. “How do we get back to Night Vale?”

“Huh,” Diane answered. The three of them stood for a moment, staring at the two cars and the pile of flamingos, waiting for an idea to come to them. A voice from behind them interrupted their thought.

“Hey,” the voice said. It was the man in the tan jacket. “Troy told me that he’s leaving for good.”

“I don’t care,” Jackie said. “How do we get back?”

“That’s what I was coming to say,” he said. “It might be impossible. I’m sor——”

Jackie punched him.

The man in the tan jacket holding a deerskin suitcase fell down into a sitting position in the dirt, but said nothing. The flies did nothing.

“I’ll let you know when you’re sorry enough,” she said.

“It’s not my fault,” he said. “I just drive to where I think Night Vale is, and sometimes I get there. Sometimes I don’t. I wish I could tell you—”

“Jackie,” Diane said, “Night Vale has a way of bringing home its own. I think we could drive in any direction and still get home. We live in a weird place.”

“Man, we really do.”

“It’s superweird,” said Josh.

“The best kind of weird,” said Jackie. She waved to the mayor, who was still sitting in the dirt. “See ya.”

They got in their cars: Diane and Josh in the Ford, Jackie in the Mercedes. They would drive out the direction they had come. They would stay together, not losing sight of the other car. They would keep a plastic flamingo and a cell phone in each car, just in case.

Jackie rolled down her window and looked down at the man in the tan jacket.

“What’s the deal with the flies anyway? Why does a mayor have a briefcase full of flies?”

“You don’t make much money as mayor of a small town. I have to have a full-time job to make ends meet.”

“Fly salesman, huh?”

“Fly salesman.”

“Makes sense.”

Without breaking eye contact, Jackie gunned the engine until a fog of white smoke enveloped the fenders. There was a sharp squeal, and the smoke lifted like a slow curtain, revealing her absence.

THE VOICE OF NIGHT VALE