When I came out, Al was hunched over my desktop computer in the alcove off the kitchen. White light flashed from the screen onto his face, reflecting off his eyes. I scanned the room for things I would need. Difficult, as I didn’t know where I was going or how long I’d be gone. Not long, I hoped. There was one thing I knew would come in handy, regardless of where we went.

“One minute, Al,” I said and rushed out to the garage without hearing a reply. The knife was in a dusty sheath under a pile of garden tools I’ve never used. Fake plants don’t require much maintenance. I clipped it to my waistband and rushed back inside. Al was standing there waiting.

“All set?” he said.

“I guess,” I said, shrugging. “Follow you.”

He led the way out to his car, a maroon ’98 Oldsmobile with satin seat covers that smelled like old cigarettes and attic mold. Al had quit smoking when he got sober, something most addicts never achieve, but his car still harbored the habit’s ghost. This close to leaving, I grew anxious, certain that we were about to be boxed in. That a squad of phony policemen would turn up to arrest me and take me to some fake station imprisoned with more abstract horrors. Or with those, like my son’s head, that presented a kind of logic I didn’t want to contemplate. I started tapping my foot and drumming against my leg.

“We’re going,” Al said, triggering the ignition. Like everything else in Al’s life, the car, although old, was well maintained. He pulled the gearshift into drive and slid away from the curb. He could floor the accelerator and it would still take a full minute to reach highway speed. My stomach began to somersault. I saw one of my neighbors walk out in his business suit, carrying his briefcase in one hand and a portable coffee mug in another. It was the first time in my life I had envied anyone remotely like him. He smiled and raised his briefcase in some kind of friendly salute. I waved while wondering if that news report had been broadcast widely or to an audience of one. Two, counting Al.

Soon we were free of my neighborhood and taking random turns in order to spot a tail. Not that either of us had experience in that field. Al and me, fugitives on the run from a mystery.

“The hell were you doing on the computer?” I asked, turned in my seat so that I could look out the back window.

“Checking that website, from the card you had.”

“What, eye-of-obsideo-dot-com?”