Если я останусь
8:17 A.M.
Itflippedthechassis,bouncingitacrosstheroadandrippedtheengineapartasifitwerenostrongerthanaspiderweb.Ittossedwheelsandhubcapsdeepintotheforest.Itignitedbitsofthegastank,sothatnowtinyflameslapatthewetroad.
Andtherewassomuchnoise.Asymphonyofgrinding,achorusofpopping,anariaofexploding,andfinally,thesadclappingofhardmetalcuttingintosofttrees.Thenitwentquiet,exceptforthis:Beethoven’sCelloSonatano.3,stillplaying.ThecarradiosomehowstillisattachedtoabatteryandsoBeethovenisbroadcastingintotheonce-againtranquilFebruarymorning.
AtfirstIfigureeverythingisfine.Forone,IcanstillheartheBeethoven.Thenthere’sthefactthatIamstandinghereinaditchonthesideoftheroad.WhenIlookdown,thejeanskirt,cardigansweater,andtheblackbootsIputonthismorningalllookthesameastheydidwhenweleftthehouse.
Iclimbuptheembankmenttogetabetterlookatthecar.Itisn’tevenacaranymore.It’sametalskeleton,withoutseats,withoutpassengers.Whichmeanstherestofmyfamilymusthavebeenthrownfromthecarlikeme.Ibrushoffmyhandsontomyskirtandwalkintotheroadtofindthem.
IseeDadfirst.Evenfromseveralfeetaway,Icanmakeouttheprotrusionofthepipeinhisjacketpocket."Dad,"Icall,butasIwalktowardhim,thepavementgrowsslickandtherearegraychunksofwhatlookslikecauliflower.IknowwhatI’mseeingrightawaybutitsomehowdoesnotimmediatelyconnectbacktomyfather.