"Watch the road," Eric Kaufman warned.

Amy jerked her mom's van off the shoulder and back between the white lines. The windshield wipers were going full blast, but they couldn't keep up with the condensation. "It's so foggy." She put the headlights on high and they both recoiled from the glare. She switched back to low beam.

"There," Eric said, pointing.

Amy exited the two-lane to a gravel road with dense vegetation on both sides. Five minutes later they arrived at their spot-an old plantation cemetery on the edge of Savannah, overgrown and forgotten.

Eric dug into a paper bag and pulled out two beers. He popped one open and handed it to Amy before opening another for himself.

He took a long swallow, then contemplated a tombstone that was barely distinguishable in the yellow glow of the van's parking lights. "Do you ever think about what it's like to be dead?"

"Don't say that!"

"Everybody dies," he told her.

Eric knew it was mean, but he couldn't help himself. He liked to tease. "It could be a car wreck. Or a virus. Cancer. Maybe a hockey puck to the chest. I knew a kid that happened to. Hit in the chest with a puck doing over ninety miles an hour. Killed him. Stopped his heart." He snapped his fingers.

"Quit!"

She sounded like his little sister.

"People are walking cartoons, ignoring the iron beam when they bend to tie a shoe," Eric said. "Sometimes I feel like I should hook a loudspeaker to my car and drive down the street shouting warnings. 'Watch out, little kid. Don't ride that bike in the street. Watch out, old lady with the big purse. You may as well be wearing a sign that says beat me up and rob me.' "

Eric didn't know what was wrong with him. He had been in a weird mood all day. A weird mood ever since high school graduation. He didn't want to grow up. He didn't want to have to make big decisions. He didn't want to have to go to college, get a job, wear a suit.

"When I was in Girl Scouts, we had part of the highway we kept clean," Amy announced as she finished off her beer and stuck the empty in the sack. "You shoulda seen the stuff people threw out. I hated them for being such pigs. You wouldn't believe all the rubbers we found."

"You picked up rubbers?" Eric asked, horrified. The image of Girl Scouts in their little green hats, sashes, and uniforms picking up rubbers-even if they wore gloves or used a stick-was disturbing.

There were a lot of things in the world innocent kids shouldn't have to see. "That's disgusting!"

"Some were pretty fresh."

"Stop it. Now you're scaring me. I've heard enough, so just stop it, okay?"

"Oh, it's fine for you to talk about dying and I can't talk about filthy rubbers?"

"I just hope to hell you wore gloves." He finished off his beer. "I don't want to talk anymore." Maybe rolling around naked with Amy would make him feel better.

While a CD played, they climbed in back and began making out. Eric was surprised at how fast he forgot about everything. They started breathing hard and the windows fogged over.

"I gotta pee," Amy announced in the darkness.

"Go ahead." He sat up and reached into the sack for another beer.

"Aren't you coming with me?"

He popped the top. "Nobody else here. Just go behind the van."

She always wanted him to go with her and stand guard to make sure somebody didn't surprise her in the middle of a peeing session. One time she'd squatted in front of a bunch of cars and somebody turned on his headlights.

Amy was completely uninhibited when it came to her body, but she still hadn't liked getting caught with her butt hanging out. Wasn't cool, and everybody she knew was concerned with being cool.

"Somebody might pull up," she said.

Eric put his beer in the holder. "Okay, I'll come." He hadn't meant to sound so annoyed.

"Forget it. I'll go by myself." She started to step from the van, then paused. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Some weird sound."

She turned down the stereo until they were surrounded by nothing but the trilling of cicadas.

"I don't hear anything," Eric said.

"It was probably a cat. Or my imagination. You know how I am."

Amy had a history of seeing and hearing things that weren't thete. Like the time amp;he swote she'd seea. the guy from Tora! Tora! Torrance! in the school cafeteria, claiming he'd ordered a veggie burger and fries. Or the time she'd gotten to shake hands with the president of the United States, and thought he'd said, "Like to fuck you." Everybody else heard, "Good luck to you," because she'd been about to compete in a state swimming competition.

Amy ducked from the van, slamming the door behind her. Eric waited a few seconds, listening to her crashing through the brush before deciding to grab the keys from the ignition and go after her.

He followed the sound of snapping twigs, making his way around broken tombstones ensnarled by vines and roots and deep grass.

"Amy?"

He could hear her moving to his right.

He took a few steps that direction,, just beyond the haze cast by the parking lights, unzipped his pants, and peed. He was rezipping when his ears picked up a muffled sound that seemed to come from inside his own head. He froze, ears straining, the hairs on his neck standing up.

"Amy?"

Another noise. This one directly below him.

Something pattered across the toe of his sneaker.

What the hell? Was Amy hiding, tossing dirt at him?

Something touched his ankle.

It felt suspiciously like a hand.

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

She was trying to get him back for not immediately volunteering to baby-sit while she peed.

Branches snapped and he looked toward a faint ctt-cle of light to see Amy walking toward him. "Did you say something?" she asked.

Eric's jaw dropped and terror rapid-rushed through his body, weakening his muscles, making it impossible to breathe or move.

It seemed years later that he was finally able to bend his neck to look down.

A clawed hand was reaching out of the ground, its fingers wrapped around his shoe.

Jordan Kemp had been buried alive. Swaddled in a heavy wool blanket, he was dragged through heavy brush.

He couldn't move, couldn't speak. Trapped in his own body.

He'd been deposited in a low area like a ditch. He could smell the damp earth, the wet leaves.

Was he dead?

He'd heard the sound of a shovel striking the ground, slicing through soil. Heard heavy breathing. A clump of earth hit him in the face. That was followed by another and another.

Then silence.

Dead silence.

Inside his head, he cried and screamed.

Nobody heard.

Nobody came.

His mind drifted. Sometimes it shut off completely.

Then a sound came to him. Like somebody moving around.

He didn't want to die like this. Didn't want his mother to find out he'd become a prostitute. He could see it in the papers.

Body of male prostitute found in shallow grave.

They would think he got what he deserved. He would think he got what he deserved.

Once more he tried to move, tried to make a sound. Air left his lungs and rushed past his lips. He let out a faint whimper.

He tried again.

Louder. Had to be louder.

He moved a finger. Just a twitch. Then another.

Like being reborn.

Sensation gradually seeped into his body. He slowly became aware of his arms, his legs. Of the weight of the soil against his chest.

He heard a muffled snapping, a crackling, not far from his head. Was someone taking a piss? Because that's sure as hell what it sounded like.

Wasn't that a zipper?

If he could only cry out, only see-

His hand.

It was the only thing he could move. He struggled to lift it until it broke through the loose soil. Until he felt something.

A shoe.

An ankle.

A person!

He heard a shout, followed by the sound of running feet. Not moving toward him, but away.

No! he cried out in his mind. Don't go!

He fought the heaviness, rocking left and right, trying to make more room.

Air.

Needed air.

The muscles in his neck tightened. In one swift movement, he strained upward, his head breaking through the soil. Like a swimmer, he surfaced and gasped, sucking dirt into his mouth, his lungs.

He gagged. He coughed. Sitting up, he pulled his arms free, then his legs.

Naked.

Cold.

He grabbed the blanket and wound it around himself. His body began to tremble, to come alive.

Music.

He heard music.

Somehow he shoved himself upright, then stiffly shuffled in the direction of the sound.

Couldn't feel his feet.

Couldn't see.

He fell down. He got back up.

Follow the music.

The music would save him.

His legs shook. He felt dizzy and sick. Even though he was free of the grave, an overwhelming sensation of impending doom washed over him.

He was going to die. He was dying. Right now. His body was shutting down, giving up.

Follow the music.

Hurry. Follow the music.

He stumbled into a cleared area. He stood there swaying, trying to see where the sound was coming from, but everything was out of focus.

The music stopped.

Not much time left. You 'd better haul ass.

He ran.

Or at least he thought he was running. Prancing along, stumbling, trying to hurry before he fell again. Because if that happened, he wouldn't be able to get back up. That would be it. Last call for alcohol. Checkout time.

Straight. Go straight.

He zeroed in on the vehicle and flew toward it, the dark wool blanket fluttering like wings.

With one quick, forward motion he slammed into the van, smacking his forehead, his palms spread flat against the window.

A girl screamed.

He tried to cling to the glass. His legs buckled and he hugged the van as he melted to the ground.

Help me, he said, but no words came out. Help me!

He was pretty sure he'd died and come back to life. And now he was dying again.

How many times could a person die? he wondered. Were people like cats? Confused, he began to crawl, to drag himself back into the woods until he blacked out.

The death he'd been expecting was very near.