"I'm going to cover him up," Mimi said. "Good, fine," Alan said. "Are you going to be okay?" "Yes, fine," Alan said. "Are you freaking out?" Alan didn't say anything. George looked an awful lot like Davey had, the day they killed him. # Mimi found a spare blanket in the closet, reeking of mothballs and scarred with a few curdled cigarette burns, and she spread it out on the floor and helped him lift Grant's body onto it and wind it tightly around him. "What now?" she said. He looked down at the wound sheet, the lump within it. He sat down heavily on the bed. His chest was tight, and his breath came in short *hup*s. She sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulder, tried to pull his head down to her bosom, but he stiffened his neck. "I knew this was coming," he said. "When we killed Darren, I knew." She stood and lit a cigarette. "This is your family business," she said, "why we're driving up north?" He nodded, not trusting his voice, seeing the outlines of Grad's face, outlined in moth-eaten blanket. "So," she said. "Let's get up north, then. Take an end." The night was cold, and they staggered under the weight of the body wound in the blanket and laid him out in the trunk of the car, shifting luggage and picnic supplies to the back seat. At two a.m., the motel lights were out and the road was dark and silent but for the soughing of wind and the distant sounds of night animals. "Are you okay to drive?" she said, as she piled their clothes indiscriminately into the suitcases. "What?" he said. The cool air on his face was waking him up a little, but he was still in a dream-universe. The air was spicy and outdoors and it reminded him powerfully of home and simpler times. He looked at Mimi without really seeing her. "Are you okay to drive?" The keys were in his hands, the car smelling of the detailing-in-a-can mist that the rental agency sprayed on the upholstery to get rid of the discount traveler farts between rentals. "I can drive," he said. Home, and the mountain, and the washing machine, and the nook where he'd slept for 18 years, and the golems, and the cradle they'd hewn for him. Another ten or twelve hours' driving and they'd be at the foot of the trail where the grass grew to waist-high. "Well, then, *drive*." She got in the car and slammed her door. He climbed in, started the engine, and put the hertzmobile into reverse. # Two hours later, he realized that he was going to nod off. The thumps of the body sliding in the trunk and the suitcases rattling around in the back seat had lost their power to keep him awake. The body's thumping had hardly had the power to begin with. Once the initial shock had passed, the body became an object only, a thing, a payload he had to deliver. Alan wondered if he was capable of feeling the loss. "You were eleven then," he said. It was suddenly as though no time had past since they'd sat on the bed and she'd told him about Auntie.