In the grudging light, Bardem came up out of the field and approached the house slowly. It had burned long ago. Blackened brick and the shape of a porch. The beams of the roof falling inward. He stopped and studied the driveway. The tire tracks in the snow were not more than a few hours old. Nothing moved. Finally he crossed to the porch and climbed the steps.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and opened the door and went in and closed the door behind him. He walked through the kitchen and into the living room. Snow sifting in from the roof. The ashen carpet was disturbed. To the left was a warped piano. At the hearth he put his hand over the coals.

He tucked the pistol in his belt. He picked up a gallon-size jug of water and spun off the cap with his thumb and sniffed. Then he put the jug down. He opened the grocery bag near the fireplace. Bloody bandages. Vials. A used syringe.

The ceiling creaked. He studied the room to make sure he’d seen everything. He walked around to the back of the piano and looked at the floor. The book was almost hidden behind the piano leg. He squatted and picked it up.

A schoolbook. Picture of a hot-air balloon.

He opened the cover.

He rose with the book and left.

There was something wrong with Jack’s eyes. He looked out the car window and watched everything undulate—house, fence, barn, horse. Cat. Shimmer of snow. Each real thing rippled for a moment, glittered like a stone skipping on water, and then became solid again. Store. Traffic light.

Ava drove on vague roads he recognized but couldn’t name. Matty sat in back. Dull pain tolled like a bell inside Jack. He held his side and put a hand on the armrest while a wave of sleepiness glowed over him.

“Give him something to eat,” he heard Ava say.

Matty handed Jack a little bag of potato chips. Jack shut his eyes and took it by feel. Touched fingers to the bag. He’d open it later. Later.

“It’s okay,” Ava said. “He just needs some rest is all.”

He let his head fall to the window. Who was she talking to? Her words came to him as if from the end of a tunnel.

Matty: “Is he going to get better?”

“Yes.”

“You might just be saying that.”

“No.”

“He looks really bad.”

“He isn’t as bad as he looks.”

Quiet. The car rolled along down the road.

“Someone was trying to kill him,” Matty said, “weren’t they?”

“I think so.”

“They might try again if they find us.”

“They won’t find us.”

“They might.”

“They won’t.”

“Okay.”

XXIII