took his thumb out of his mouth and made a mewing sound, like a cat.
Stopped me dead.
I hate cats. This little kid sounding just like one – out of no place like that – scared the crap out of me. I froze. I thought of the cat I had kicked onto the street. Which made me think of my friend Raf, who liked cats. Which made me think of the last time I’d seen Raf, under the dash of the big white Lincoln. What a screwup!
I couldn’t move, not even when the kid reached up to take my hand in his. I didn’t want to touch his spit-sticky fingers, but I had no choice.
“I’m Wolfgang,” he said. “It’s time for your second vision, Jim.”
He dragged me past the staircase to the elevator.
CHAPTER 9
T here was room for both of us in the elevator – barely. It was one of those sloooooow ones. Lots of creaking and whining. Took us a long minute to get to the third floor. I kept thinking we were going to get stuck.
When Wolfgang let go of my hand, I wiped it dry.
His hand wasn’t the only wet thing about him. His face ran with sweat, and the collar of his T-shirt was darker than the rest of it. When he shifted his weight, I swear I heard squishing sounds from his shoes.
He trembled a lot. As the elevator hitched and groaned its way up, I’d look down at him, and he’d have his thumb in his mouth and his eyes closed. And he’d be shaking. Tadeusz had said that ghosts were tied to Earth. That’s why they were staying at this pathetic hotel. Pretty clear that Denise was here because of her son. I wondered what tied Wolfgang. Did he feel sad because he never got to grow up? That didn’t sound right. When I was his age I didn’t regret anything. What have you done wrong by the time you’re six?
I asked him if he was a Mourner. He shook his head.
“Grave Walker,” he said without taking his thumb out of his mouth. Sweat dripped from the ends of his hair.
The elevator stopped, finally, and we got out. The third-floor hall had spiderwebs and peeling wallpaper. Bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. Wolfgang’s roomwas the one after 314 and across from 315. The number on the door was 31. I figured that the 6 had fallen off. He swiped his card to open his door and led me in.
“You play Extreme Moto-X?” he asked.
“The video game? I used to.”
It’s a real old one. We don’t have a system at home, but Jerry lets Raf and me play the ones in his shop.
“Take a seat.” His voice was creaky, like a door that needed oiling. I guess he didn’t talk much. He went to the TV for the controllers.
There was no seat. Just an unmade kid’s bed, with a torn sticker of Daffy Duck on one side. The TV was on the far wall, maybe two paces from the bed. Not a big room.
The walls ran with damp. The air smelled sweet and rotten – unwashed clothes mixed with mildew and farts. I tried not to breathe too deep.
He plunked himself down on the bed and put my controller beside him. I sat cautiously. Had the sheets ever been changed?
Extreme Moto-X is a motorcycle race across a lame 2-D desert. The screen splits for two players. I was the bike on the left. I tried out the controller. Thumb-sized joystick, two buttons. B button was a skid control, I remembered. Okay then. I took a breath, shook my shoulders loose.
“The A button is jump, right?” I asked.
Wolfgang nodded, intent on the screen.
3—2—1—GO! The flag came down.
When the race started, the desert disappeared, replaced by my neighborhood. The graphics were a littlebetter, and I recognized Wright Avenue west of Roncy, down the street from Wright Avenue Elementary School, where they might, at that very moment, be wondering where I was. (Or not. This wouldn’t be the first day I’d skipped.)
I was expecting something like this to happen, but I got that stupid lump in my chest again. I never thought I was so emotional.
Like most streets in my neighborhood, Wright Avenue featured tall skinny houses leaning together, neat front lawns, cars parked like
Stopped me dead.
I hate cats. This little kid sounding just like one – out of no place like that – scared the crap out of me. I froze. I thought of the cat I had kicked onto the street. Which made me think of my friend Raf, who liked cats. Which made me think of the last time I’d seen Raf, under the dash of the big white Lincoln. What a screwup!
I couldn’t move, not even when the kid reached up to take my hand in his. I didn’t want to touch his spit-sticky fingers, but I had no choice.
“I’m Wolfgang,” he said. “It’s time for your second vision, Jim.”
He dragged me past the staircase to the elevator.
CHAPTER 9
T here was room for both of us in the elevator – barely. It was one of those sloooooow ones. Lots of creaking and whining. Took us a long minute to get to the third floor. I kept thinking we were going to get stuck.
When Wolfgang let go of my hand, I wiped it dry.
His hand wasn’t the only wet thing about him. His face ran with sweat, and the collar of his T-shirt was darker than the rest of it. When he shifted his weight, I swear I heard squishing sounds from his shoes.
He trembled a lot. As the elevator hitched and groaned its way up, I’d look down at him, and he’d have his thumb in his mouth and his eyes closed. And he’d be shaking. Tadeusz had said that ghosts were tied to Earth. That’s why they were staying at this pathetic hotel. Pretty clear that Denise was here because of her son. I wondered what tied Wolfgang. Did he feel sad because he never got to grow up? That didn’t sound right. When I was his age I didn’t regret anything. What have you done wrong by the time you’re six?
I asked him if he was a Mourner. He shook his head.
“Grave Walker,” he said without taking his thumb out of his mouth. Sweat dripped from the ends of his hair.
The elevator stopped, finally, and we got out. The third-floor hall had spiderwebs and peeling wallpaper. Bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. Wolfgang’s roomwas the one after 314 and across from 315. The number on the door was 31. I figured that the 6 had fallen off. He swiped his card to open his door and led me in.
“You play Extreme Moto-X?” he asked.
“The video game? I used to.”
It’s a real old one. We don’t have a system at home, but Jerry lets Raf and me play the ones in his shop.
“Take a seat.” His voice was creaky, like a door that needed oiling. I guess he didn’t talk much. He went to the TV for the controllers.
There was no seat. Just an unmade kid’s bed, with a torn sticker of Daffy Duck on one side. The TV was on the far wall, maybe two paces from the bed. Not a big room.
The walls ran with damp. The air smelled sweet and rotten – unwashed clothes mixed with mildew and farts. I tried not to breathe too deep.
He plunked himself down on the bed and put my controller beside him. I sat cautiously. Had the sheets ever been changed?
Extreme Moto-X is a motorcycle race across a lame 2-D desert. The screen splits for two players. I was the bike on the left. I tried out the controller. Thumb-sized joystick, two buttons. B button was a skid control, I remembered. Okay then. I took a breath, shook my shoulders loose.
“The A button is jump, right?” I asked.
Wolfgang nodded, intent on the screen.
3—2—1—GO! The flag came down.
When the race started, the desert disappeared, replaced by my neighborhood. The graphics were a littlebetter, and I recognized Wright Avenue west of Roncy, down the street from Wright Avenue Elementary School, where they might, at that very moment, be wondering where I was. (Or not. This wouldn’t be the first day I’d skipped.)
I was expecting something like this to happen, but I got that stupid lump in my chest again. I never thought I was so emotional.
Like most streets in my neighborhood, Wright Avenue featured tall skinny houses leaning together, neat front lawns, cars parked like
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