“Good-bye, Mrs. Courtland.”

“Oh, good-bye, Ariel. Please tell your mother hello.”

“I will.” The girl slowing, not quite stopping, books held to her chest, the great brown eyes. She had an older sister with the same eyes who had run track with Caitlin but who’d broken her neck diving into a pool and lived now in her wheelchair, and Angela digging intently at the tote bag, muttering, a glance and a smile—“Bye now”—and the girl Ariel nodding and turning and going on, and Angela’s heart racing high in her chest as she shut the door and shook out a palmful of pills and then spilled them back into the vial, all but two, and clapped them into her mouth and swallowed them dry. When she opened the door again some minutes later the hall stood empty left and right. She stepped out and walked it with the rap of her heels bouncing off the tin lockers like the footfall of some following soul. Like the twin sister who still spoke to her, whom she saw in the mirror. Two old dears alone in that church-quiet corridor, they might have been, childless where a thousand living children ran.

How do you go on?

You just do, honey.

The clack-clack of heels. The gray rectangles of doorlight ahead.

Why?

Because He asks you to. And for your family.

She pushed through the doors and there was the smell of rain and she sat on the wooden bench and slipped off one heel and pulled the white sock onto her foot, the white sneaker after, and then she did the same for the other foot and tied the laces. She lifted her face to the sky and shut her eyes against the first cold drops. Your family. She tried to think. She tried to remember what that meant. How you were supposed to feel. Above her, the flag lapped silkily upon itself, susurrant as some creek or stream making its way across the sky. The drops fell harder. Colder. She pulled the black umbrella from her tote bag and thumbed the button and the device shot forward and flapped into tautness over its bat-wing joints. She felt the pills under her heart like a hundred small hands holding it aloft.

At home—at Grace’s—her little sister, who did not work on Mondays, was putting the kitchen back in order. She was getting dressed, she was brewing fresh coffee and reading the paper, she was listening to that clock. She was waiting for Angela to walk in the door and tell her how it went. She was waiting to talk. Grace had no memories of another sister, of Faith. To her there was Angela, and there was this girl who looked exactly like Angela in the old albums—identical pretty young girls smiling, dazzling the camera, no way to tell which was the girl who would live and which the one who would not.

Angie.

Yes.

We can’t just sit here.

I know.

She sat a moment longer beneath the umbrella, inside the dark bell of it, listening to the drops drumming. Then she stood and walked away from the school, and away from Grace’s.

5

Two days of heavy snow before the pass opened again and they could go. Unbelievably bright and crystalline Saturday morning, the little resort town gilded end to end in a deep wonderland sugar. Skiers racking their skis on a shuttle bus outside the motel and clomping aboard in splendid plastic boots. A foursome of boys jostling up the walk waving snowboards—Hold the bus!—eighteen, nineteen, careless as lords.

It was the day before Th anksgiving. Th ey had lived in the motel for four months. Family of four when they checked in, family of three checking out.

Everybody in? Grant said unthinkingly.

Th ey were the only car going upward against a long, down-snaking procession of inbound traffic, as if they alone defied the laws of the divide, of physics. Th e whitened pine forests rolling by like a child’s dream of winter (if anything moved, if anything stirred in all that whiteness the eye would see it at once, seize on it—but nothing did), and they wound their way up one side of the divide and down the other without a word among them, slipping at last into a vein of freeway that carried them through the city toward the plains to the east, the great peaks rising behind them, more massive somehow with distance, undiminishing, the car doing seventy but dragging, straining, the sensation of a climbing ride that would reach its vertical limit, falter, and plummet backward. As it must. As it should.

Th ey drove on, away from her, mile by mile.

In the back the boy had his homework, the things the school had sent, arranged on his lap, his naked leg pillowed along the length of the seat, the entire length of it, no other way for him to be in the car, so where would she have sat?

East of the city nothing but the road ahead and the wintered plains and the blue sky. Th ey drove over a ruddy stain where an animal had been struck, and Angela reset her sunglasses. Deeper into the plains dark rags of meat and hide littered the road. Black hooves in the ditch like strange blossoms. Th ey came upon a fully intact animal in the median, a newly antlered buck on folded legs, no blood but no life either in the eye that watched them pass. Oh God, said

Angela, and Grant said, Don’t look.

How can I not look?

Watch the horizon. Close your eyes.

Th at doesn’t help.

What do you want me to do?

Th ere was the rattle of pills and her head kicked back once and then again as she drank from her water bottle. If she looked over her shoulder all she would see of the boy was his leg. Th e lurid seams. Th e gleaming steel brace clinging to his knee and holding the pieces together under the skin. A thing from the future that from time to random time probed with its needle legs raw, deep beds of nerves. Since they’d gotten into the car she hadn’t looked back, not once. As if her head no longer moved that way.

Grant tabulated through the stations and switched off the radio. How you doing back there? In one of his pockets were Sean’s pills.

Fine.

Th e leg okay?

Th e boy looked at his leg. Th e steel arachnid.

Are there any rest stops in this state?

When they stopped, Angela’s head, lolled against the window, did not stir. Grant pulled the collapsed wheelchair from the rear of the wagon and after a few minutes the boy was in it and they were pushing into a bitter wind, his bare leg pink and white in the cold.

No warmer inside the men’s room but at least windless, the wind whistling around the glass blocks where the caulking had pulled away. A large man in a checkerboard winter vest glanced at them and turned back to his loud pissing. Sean wheeled himself to the handicap stall and Grant said, Will you be all right? and Sean didn’t answer, his heart rising furiously. At school was a bathroom with a blue wheelchair sign on the door and the door would swing open when you came near it with a certain kind of card, and the only people who had the card were the janitors and a boy in his class with MS and an older girl, a friend of Caitlin’s who’d broken her neck diving into a swimming pool. And now Sean would have the card too and he would go into the cripple’s bathroom and sit like a girl when he pissed.

Some minutes later he wheeled out of the men’s room and steered toward the glass doors of the lobby and stopped. Out in the car, his mother’s head rested as before. Sunglasses like black outsized eyes, blind and unblinking. To the west was nothing, the mountains gone, absolutely, as if into a sea. Th ey were the survivors; all they had now was each other. Like in a book, or a movie.