I fight to clear my head.
“Give me suction now!” somebody calls. And then I hear my name again and again.
“Cameron!” It’s Gonzo’s yelling. He’s running up the road. “Dude—watch out!”
The next thing I know, I’m on the pavement of Farm Route 44 with a van headed right for me. I shut my eyes tight. There’s a screech of braking tires. I can smell the scorched rubber and the pungent mix of hot gasoline and motor oil. When I open my eyes, my head is an inch from the front bumper. I see feet running toward me.
“Is he okay?” A girl crouches next to me. She’s pretty in a neohippie sort of way. Her T-shirt reads CESSNAB CRUSADERS.
A guy in a baseball cap comes over and checks me out, shining a little flashlight in my eyes, checking my pupils. He’s got the same CESSNAB shirt on. They all do. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed, friend. Can you stand up?”
The guy helps me to my feet, but I’m shaking all over and I have to lean against him to walk.
“Easy there, friend. Do you live around here? Where are your parents?”
“Holy shit!” Gonzo says, running up. “Dude, you okay?”
The guy in the baseball cap frowns. “Friend, could I ask you to watch your language? There are ladies present.”
Gonzo looks like somebody just took the pudding snack out of his lunch box. “Uh, sure. Sorry.”
“I think you should come back with us,” the guy says, turning back to me. “We’ve got a doctor at our compound who can make sure you don’t have a concussion or something else nasty, okay?”
I nod and it’s like a tiny revolver has fired inside my skull, pinging every part of my head with pain bullets.
“What’s your name, friend?”
“Why do you want to know?” Gonzo asks.
The guy holds up his hands. “I only want to help, friend.”
“I’m Cameron,” I say. “And this is Gonzo.”
“I’m Daniel.” The guy shakes my hand, which also hurts. He introduces the others, including the hippie girl, whose name is Ruth. “I’m just gonna move stuff around, get the van ready. Be right back.”
Gonzo grabs hold of my arm and my skin screams in protest. “Cam, dude, I don’t think we should get in the van. We don’t know these guys. They could be serial killers.”
“They’re not serial killers. They have matching shirts.”
“Think: who has vans, huh? Soccer moms and serial killers. They mentioned a compound. And ‘getting the van ready.’ Ready for what?”
“You’re tripping.”
“Dude. I’m not getting in that van.”
The dust on the road stings my eyes. I’m hungry and tired and scared. “Then stay here. I’m going with them.”
A smiling Daniel ambles over and puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you, Cameron.”
“We’ve got snacks in the van,” Ruth says. “I’ll bet you could use a snack.”
They belt me into a seat in back. Gonzo’s still on the side of the road, looking panicked. “Cameron, don’t you think we should wait here till your aunt and uncle come to pick us up? You know, your aunt and uncle, who are supposed to meet us out here any minute?”
“We can have them pick you up at the CESSNAB,” Daniel says. I don’t know what a CESSNAB is and I don’t care. Right now, I just want to drink a vat of water and lie down for about two days. I can barely hold my head up.
Daniel extends a hand to Gonzo. “You coming, friend?”
Ruth smiles. “We’ll take you bowling.”
Gonzo’s revving as hard as the engine, like he doesn’t know whether to be more freaked out about getting in the van with a bunch of possible serial killers or to take his chances alone by the side of a road in Godonlyknowswhere, Mississippi. I decide that Possible Serial Killers would make a good band name. I promise myself if I’m cured, I’ll start that band.
“Okay,” Gonzo says, climbing in at last. “But I want to sit by the door.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Of What Happens When I Bowl a Perfect Strike and Learn Not to Hurt My Happiness
Once we hit the road, the Possible Serial Killers start to sing a song I don’t know. Something about showing your happiness and loving your happiness and defending your happiness. One of the guys tries to ad-lib some “oh yeah’s” until Ruth frowns and tells him it’s “a little competitive” and “off message” and he stops.