Американские боги

           Thebusdrovethrough,joltingthroughthemeadowland.Shadowclosedthegate.Hewalkedalittlebehindthebus,stretchinghislegs,joggingwhenthebusgottoofarinfrontofhim.Enjoyingthesensationofmovinghisbody.

           HehadlostallsenseoftimeonthedrivefromKansas.Hadtheybeendrivingfortwodays?Threedays?Hedidnotknow.

           Thebodyinthebackofthebusdidnotseemtoberotting.Hecouldsmellit—afaintodorofJackDaniel’s,overlaidwithsomethingthatmighthavebeensourhoney.Butthesmellwasnotunpleasant.Fromtimetotimehewouldtakeouttheglasseyefromhispocketandlookatit:itwasshattereddeepinside,fracturedfromwhatheimaginedwastheimpactofabullet,butapartfromachiptoonesideoftheiristhesurfacewasunmarred.Shadowwouldrunitthroughhishands,palmingit,rollingit,pushingitalongwithhisfingers.Itwasaghastlysouvenir,butoddlycomforting:andhesuspectedthatitwouldhaveamusedWednesdaytoknowthathiseyehadwoundupinShadow’spocket.

           Thefarmhousewasdarkandshutup.Themeadowswereovergrownandseemedabandoned.Thebuilding’sroofwascrumblingattheback;itwascoveredinblackplasticsheeting.TheyjoltedoveraridgeandShadowsawthetree.

           Itwassilver-grayanditwashigherthanthefarmhouse.ItwasthemostbeautifultreeShadowhadeverseen:spectralandyetutterlyrealandalmostperfectlysymmetrical.