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moved but his pitifully stubby； flipperlike arms； his prognathous jaw； and his big googly eyes。 Trevor figured he had probably hated Barney as much as any real person he had ever known。
The bathroom tiles were spotless； deliriously cold against his bare feet。 He used the Tom's of Maine cinnamon…flavored toothpaste on the edge of the sink； then splashed cold water on his face。 For a long moment he stood staring into the mirror。 His father's eyes looked back at him； ice rimmed in black； faintly challenging。 Do you dare？
You bet I do。
The door of Kinsey's bedroom was ajar。 Trevor peeked into the shady room。 Kinsey's tall form lay sprawled across the bed； skinny legs half…covered by a vivid patch…work quilt。 He was the only person Trevor had ever seen who actually wore pajamas…bright blue ones； the same color as his eyes； patterned with little gold moons and stars。 Trevor hadn't even known they made pajamas in Kinsey's size。
For a few minutes he watched the gentle rise and fall of Kinsey's chest； the draft from the open window that stirred Kinsey's scraggly hair； and he wondered if he had ever slept so peacefully。 Even when Trevor wasn't having bad dreams his sleep was uneasy； sporadic； full of flickering pictures and half…remembered faces。
But the luminous face of the clock on Kinsey's nightstand （no cheap digital job； but a molded…plastic relic done in early sixties aqua； its corners rounded and streamlined） told him it was nearly noon。 He had to go。 Not to the house yet； no； but he had to take the first step toward the house。
Trevor slung his backpack over his shoulder； stepped out into the tranquil Sunday morning； and locked Kinsey's door behind him。
The road that led out to Missing Mile's small graveyard was hot and flat and muddy。 Trevor was accustomed to walking city streets； where the languid haze of summer was shot through with blasts of air…conditioning from doors constantly opening onto the sidewalk； where you could always duck under an awning or the overhang of a building； into a little pocket of shade。
But this road； Burnt Church Road according to the crooked signpost where it ran into Firehouse Street； offered no shade except the occasional leafy canopy of a tree。 The houses out here were few and far apart。 Most had been built on farmland； and the road was bordered by fields of leathery tobacco and bristling corn。 This was a nicer area than Violin Road； the dirt here had not yet been farmed to death。 The houses were not new or fancy； but their yards were large grassy expanses unmarred by scrap heaps or the rusting hulks of autos。
The sun beat mercilessly on the road and on the coarse gravel that paved it； broken granite like the crushed leavings of a cemetery； mired in wet red clay； catching the light and shattering it into a million razored fragments。 Trevor was glad when clouds began to blow in； a slowbrewing summer thunderstorm on the way。 His brain felt baked in his skull； and his skin already tingled with fresh sunburn。 His backpack was waterproof； to keep his sketchbook dry。 If the storm held long enough； he would start a new drawing at the graveyard。 If not； he would sit on the ground and let the rain soak him。
Trevor could feel the nearly silent presence of death up ahead； not precisely watchful； not even really aware； but somehow detectable。 It was like a frequency on a radio； or rather the empty space on the band between frequencies： there were no signals to pick up； but still you heard a faint electric hum； not quite silence； not quite sound。 It was like being in a room someone had just left； a room that still bore the faint scent of breath and skin； the subtle displacement of air。 An epileptic kid had died on his hall at the Boys' Home once； pitched a grand mal fit in the hours before dawn； when no one was awake to help him。 Trevor had woken in the cool； still morning and known that death was close by； though he hadn't known who it had e to； or how。
But the graveyard gave off only a quiet buzz like crickets in the sun； like the cogs of a watch beginning to wind down。 Set back at the shady dead end of Burnt Church Road； surrounded by woods on three sides； it was a place that felt like surcease from pain。 Trevor had never seen the burial place of his family。 As soon as it came into view； he knew that this was a fitting prelude to going home。
Of course they hadn't let him attend the funeral。 As far as Trevor knew； there had been no proper funeral。 Bobby McGee had burned most of his bridges when they left Austin； and they had no family but each other。 The town； he supposed； had paid for the interment of three cheap pine coffins。
Later； a group of ics artists and publishers had taken up money for a stone。 Someone had sent Trevor a Polaroid snapshot of it years ago。 He remembered turning the picture over and over in his hands until the oil from his fingers marred the slick paper； wondering who had cared enough to visit and photograph the grave of his family but not enough to rescue him from the hell that was the Boys' Home。
He also remembered a drawing he had done soon afterward； a cutaway view of the grave。 He made the headstone look shiny and slick； as if some thick dark substance coated the granite。 The earth below was loamy； seeded here and there with worms； nuggets of rock； stray bones e loose from their moorings。 There were three coffins； two large ones with long shrouded forms within； their folds suggesting ruined faces。 The shape in the littlest coffin was strange…it might have been one form grossly misshapen； or two small forms mingled。
Mr。 Webb； the junior high art teacher who hid Listerine bottles full of rotgut whiskey in his desk； had called the drawing morbid and crumpled it。 When Trevor flew at him； skinny arms outstretched； hands hooked into claws going unthinkingly for Webb's eyes； the teacher backhanded him before he knew what he was doing。 Both were disciplined； Webb with a week's suspension； Trevor with expulsion from art class and confiscation of his sketchbook。 He covered the walls of his room with furious art： swarming thousand…legged bugs； soaring skeletal birds； beautifully lettered curse words； screaming faces with black holes for eyes。
They never let him take an art class again。
Now here was the place of his drawing and his dreams； the place he had imagined so often that it already seemed familiar。 The graveyard was much as he had pictured it； small and shady and overgrown； many of the stones listing； the roots of large trees twining through the graves and down into the rich soil； mining the fertile deposits of the bodies buried there。 Trevor wondered whether he might find Didi's face in a knothole； the many colors of Momma's hair in a shock of sun…bleached grass； the shape of his father's long…fingered hands in a gracefully gnarled branch。
Maybe。 First； though； he had to find their grave。
Trevor rummaged in his backpack； found a can of Jolt Cola； popped the top； and tipped the warm soda into his mouth。 The sickly…sweet taste foamed over his tongue； trickled into the cracks between his teeth。 It tasted horrible； like stale carbonated saliva。 But the caffeine sent immediate electric tendri