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some music or something; I’m sick of the news.”
    They were driving in Joe’s truck. Not anywhere in particular, just wasting time. Something they did every afternoon after school let out. They’d been doing this ritual since they both got their driver’s licenses last year. Michael rolled the window down, enjoying the way the wind caught his long brown hair.
    “What do you want to hear?”
    “I don’t care. Anything except this crap. Who cares about an earthquake?”
    Michael cared, but he didn’t bother admitting it. Besides, Joe was right, the news hadn’t broadcast anything original in hours. Just the same old stuff since the initial reports started coming in last night. Most of the information played on a loop. No one seemed to know anything. Searching through the music, he settled on Green Day, the only CD that wasn’t scratched beyond recognition. Joe didn’t take good care of his things.
    “So you heard about Sasquatch?” That was Joe’s pet namefor Mr. Petrov, the crazy old Vietnam veteran who lived down the street from the school. He was known for screaming at teenagers who came too close to his front lawn. He also had one of the only houses that was toilet papered on a regular basis.
    “Yeah, he attacked the mailman or something yesterday.”
    “Bit his earlobe off,” Joe said. “Clear right off. Chewed on it for a while too before the police hit him with a Taser. I mean, how messed up is that?”
    “What did they do with him?”
    “Heard they hauled him off to the nuthouse. About time, too. It’s not like it’s news. He’s been loopy for years.”
    Michael tapped his fingers gently on the car door in time to the music. It was strange to think of Mr. Petrov’s house as being empty. He’d been a bit of a shut-in, rarely leaving his yard except to buy groceries every single Monday at the Safeway. He was a local attraction. There wasn’t much else going on in Whitefish.
    “Do you think they’ll put his house up for sale?” he asked. “He doesn’t have any family, right? I wonder what will happen to his stuff?”
    Joe didn’t answer. Tapping the brakes, he slowed the truck and swerved slightly to the right. “What the hell is that guy doing?”
    Michael looked. Ahead of them, the drivers of a motorcycle and a car appeared to be in an argument. The car driver, with his head clear out the window, was screaming obscenities at the guy on the bike. Honking his horn several times, he hit the gas pedal as the biker tried to speed away. His license plates were out-of-state—Idaho.
    “That’s some serious road rage,” Michael said.
    Joe leaned his head out the window. “Just say no, dude,” he screamed. “It’s all about the love.”
    “I don’t think you’re helping.”
    The car honked its horn again, the red brake lights glowing as the driver slowed down to keep the same speed as the motorcycle.
    The biker decided he’d had enough. He revved the engine, and the motorcycle gained speed, edging ahead until he’d almost passed the car.
    “Oh my God.”
    The driver swerved his car straight into the motorcycle’s path, front fender meeting with back tire. The biker lost control; the machine spun sideways and into the path of a Mack truck. Both rider and bike were propelled toward Joe’s car. The guy’s body twisted and turned, doing airborne cartwheels, a rag doll tossed through the air. Joe slammed the brakes while spinning the steering wheel, sending them into the ditch.
    Over the sound of Green Day, Michael heard the body as it smashed against the pavement. There was a squelching noise, like a water balloon exploding upon impact.
    The truck came to a stop right at the base of the tree line. Michael’s body jerked against the seat belt, shooting pain along his chest and up into his shoulder.
    “Oh my God, did you see that? Did you see that?” Joe’s voice raised several octaves. “I’m gonna hurl.” He barely managed to get the door open before the contents of his lunch