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impact； skinny body curled in a half inch of water threaded with his own blood。 His blood that Trevor had spilled before he even knew what he was doing。
And the weird thing was； the boy's hands had actually felt good sliding over his skin。 He had liked the feeling 。 。 。 and then suddenly the boy had been on the floor with blood ing out of his head。
He had plenty of time to think about what he had done； and what had made him do it； the violence inherent in his genes； in his soul。 That was the first time he could remember considering the forts of suicide。
Trevor stuck his pencil behind his ear； laid his sketchbook on the ground in front of him。 He let the fingers of his right hand slide down the soft inner skin of his left forearm。 The skin there was mottled with old scars； years of slashes and cross…hatchings done with a single…edged Exacto razor blade； the same kind he used for layouts。 Perhaps a hundred thin raised lines of skin； paler than the rest of his arm； exquisitely sensitive； some still reddened and hurt once in a while； as if the tissue deep inside his arm had never quite healed。 But if you went deep enough into the tissue； no scar ever healed pletely。
And this map of pain he had carved out of his skin； this had been no half…assed attempt at suicide； anyway。 Trevor knew that to kill yourself you had to cut along the length of your arm； had to lay it open from wrist to elbow like some fruit with a rich red pulp and a hard white core。 Had to cut all the way to bone； had to sever every major artery and vein。 He had never tried it。
These cuts he had made over the years were more in the nature of experimentation： to test his domain over his own malleable flesh； to know the strange human jelly below the surface； part layer upon cell…delicate layer of skin； part quickening blood； part pale subcutaneous fat that parted like butter at the touch of a new blade。 Sometimes he would hold his arm over a page of his sketchbook； let the blood fall on clean white paper or mingle with fresh black ink； sometimes he would trace it into patterns with his finger or the nib of a pen。
But he hadn't done it for years and years。 He thought the last time had been on his twentieth birthday； two years 。 out of state's custody； the ill winds of adulthood and poverty blowing down his neck。 It was as if America had begun the decade of the eighties by shattering some great cosmic mirror； except that the seven years of bad luck hadn't ended yet。 The wizened； evil…faced dybbuk in the White House had been as alien a being as Trevor could imagine； a shriveled yet hideously animated puppet thrust into power by the same shadowy forces that had controlled the world since Trevor was five； forces he could not control； could barely see or begin to understand。
He had spent the night of his twentieth birthday wandering around New York City； riding the subways alone； slamming down coffee and cappuccino and espresso in every dive he passed； finally achieving an exaggerated state of awareness that went beyond perception into hallucination。 He ended up huddled in a grove in Washington Square Park； furtively slicing at his wrist with a dull and rusty blade he dug out of his pocket； trying to let some of this electric energy out with the blood before it rattled him to pieces。 Toward dawn he fell into restless sleep and dreamed of angels telling him to do violence…to himself？ to someone else？ he could not remember when he woke。
He didn't know why he had stopped cutting himself after that。 It had just stopped working： the pain couldn't e out that way anymore。
Trevor sat up straight； shook himself。 He'd nearly started to doze here in the gathering storm on his family's grave。 He saw an image of his flayed wrist above a white sheet of paper； dark sluggish blood making Rorschach blots on the page。
The first drops of rain were hitting the spongy carpet of grass and pine needles； dark streaking and blotching on the headstones。 Lightning sketched across the sky； searing jagged blue； then thunder rolling in like a slow tide。 Trevor closed his sketchbook and slid it into his backpack。 He could work on the Bird strip later； at the house。
The rain began to e down in great gusting sheets as he left the graveyard。 By the time he reached the road； the ground was already wet enough to sink and squelch under his feet； muddy water oozing into his socks and sneakers。 The trees bowed low over the road； then lashed the wind…torn sky。
A ways down the road； Trevor realized that he had barely glanced at the headstone as he left； had not touched it at all past the first initial contact。 It was numb； dead； like the fragments of memory and bone that lay beneath it。 Maybe they had been there once； but as their flesh decayed and crumbled in the sodden Southern ground； their essences had leached away too。 Maybe he could find his family in Missing Mile； or something of them。 But not where their bodies lay。
He had plodded most of the way back to town when he heard a car ing slowly up the road behind him； grinding over the coarse wet gravel。 He thought briefly of trying to thumb； just as quickly decided against it。 He was already soaked through； nobody would want his soggy ass on their upholstery。
Now the car was close enough that he could hear its wipers sluicing back and forth across the windshield。 The sound triggered a memory so distant it was barely there： lying in the back seat of his father's car one rainy afternoon in Texas； listening to the shush…skree of the wipers and watching the rain course down the windows。 One of the great San Francisco contingent of cartoonists…Trevor couldn't remember which one…had been passing through town； and Bobby was showing him the sights of 1970 Austin； whatever they may have been。 The other cartoonist was busily rolling joint after joint； but that didn't stop him from running his mouth as much as Bobby。 For Trevor in the back seat everything blurred together like different hues of watercolor paint： the fortable sound of the adults' voices； the sweet herbal tang of the pot smoke； the afternoon city light filtering through a veil of rain。
Momma must have been at home with the baby。 Didi had been sick with one thing or another for a good part of his first year。 Momma worried over him； fixed him special nasty…tasting organic mush； kept watch over him as he slept。 Just as if she thought it mattered； just as if they all lived in a universe where Didi was going to grow up。
Trevor kept walking； did not register that the car had pulled up behind him until a horn blipped。 He turned and found himself staring at the headlights and grillwork of his father's old car； the one whose back seat he had dozed on that rainy day in Austin； the one they had driven to Missing Mile。 The two…toned Rambler； or its twin； plete with a crimp that had graced its front bumper since 1970。
His father's car； the windshield opaque with reflected light； the windows obscured by beads and drips of rain。 Bobby's car ing down Burnt Church Road； from the direction of the graveyard。 And the window on the driver's side was slowly cranking down。
Trevor thought there might be tears on his face。 Or maybe it was only the