Мгла
The End.
Icouldn’tevenkidmyselfthatallthehorror-moviemonsterswerebackattheFederal;whenIcrackedthewindowIcouldheartheminthewoods,crashingandblunderingaroundonthesteepfalloflandtheycalltheLedgesaroundtheseparts.Themoisturedrip-drip-drippedfromtheoverhangingleaves.Overheadthemistdarkenedmomentarilyassomenightmarishandhalf-seenlivingkiteoverflewus.
Itriedtotellmyself-thenandnow-thatifshewasveryquick,ifshebuttonedupthehousewithherselfinside,thatshehadenoughfoodfortendaystotwoweeks.Itonlyworksalittlebit.Whatkeepsgettinginthewayismylastmemoryofher,wearingherfloppysunhatandgardeninggloves,onherwaytoourlittlevegetablepatchwiththemistrollinginexorablyacrossthelakebehindher.
ItisBillyIhavetothinkaboutnow.Billy,Itellmyself.BigBill,BigBill...Ishouldwriteitmaybeahundredtimesonthissheetofpaper,likeachildcondemnedtowriteIwillnotthrowspitballsinschoolasthesunnythree-o’clockstillnessspillsthroughthewindowsandtheteachercorrectshomeworkpapersatherdeskandtheonlysoundisherpen,whilesomewhere,faraway,kidspickupteamsforscratchbaseball.
Anyway,atlastIdidtheonlythingIcoulddo.IreversedtheScoutcarefullybacktoKansasRoad.ThenIcried.
Amandatouchedmyshouldertimidly."David,I’msosorry,"shesaid.
"Yeah,"Isaid,tryingtostopthetearsandnothavingmuchluck."Yeah,soamI."
IdrovetoRoute302andturnedleft,towardPortland.
