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  She reached Boulange Boulevard and made her way to a red light. It was late morning, not much traffic, and open road lay ahead, so she decided to see what that 350 thing was all about. She looked left as a black Caddy pulled up beside her with a young, homely looking guy driving. His hair looked like the matted backside of a golden retriever. And the look on his face was like a deer in headlights. That Caddy was probably his mommy’s car.

  Of course, she was driving her daddy’s car.

  Didn’t matter. She smiled at the homely guy. The look on his face went from deer in the headlights to something resembling stoned. She started revving the car. The light turned green and she rammed the gas to the floor, tires squealing as she sped off. That squeal was how fast cars laughed. In the rearview mirror, she could see that the Caddy was still at the light.

  A splash of confidence massaged her limbs, but then she realized she was going sixty-five. She slowed down to forty, the speed limit.

  She passed Ikea and soon came up on Boulange Street. Her gut told her to turn. After a couple of blocks she reached Boulange Circle. The street was lined with old buildings, most looking post-apocalyptic, including 275. Strange. It didn’t look like a natural food outlet.

  What it looked like was a long and narrow brick warehouse, with a ridge along the top and lined with windows. Some windows were cracked, and all of them were covered in a layer of gunk. The long side of the building was “a par three from the forward tees,” as her dad would say, and there were lots of old trees, some towering over the top edge of the building. There weren’t any cars in the parking lot, but there were plenty of potholes and cracks, dried weeds poking from most.

  Well, Victor was probably just starting up his business, and this was all he could afford. Or maybe he was looking for a funky, industrial vibe. Or it could just be the wrong Boulange Circle.

  As she pulled into the parking lot, the passenger-side tire dipped into a pothole, and she heard a sharp, metallic snap. She hit the brakes and threw the car in reverse. The snap was now a metallic screech until she hit the pothole again. That was stupid. She put it back in first and touched the gas. The car leapt forward with a series of snaps and pops.

  “No! No!”

  Remmie stomped the breaks and got out to look at the car. The bumper was crumpled and hanging loose, pulled away from the passenger’s side, and barely holding on to the driver’s side. She looked around the desolate complex of buildings. Why was she there? She’d destroyed her dad’s toy, his free time, his topic of conversation. Her chin started to spasm. She wouldn’t be able to drive it home. She would have to get it towed so she didn’t damage it further. She wondered if Victor knew anything about cars. Perhaps he would know how to fix it without her dad noticing.

  But what if she wasn’t even at the correct address? She swallowed, a prickly lump forming in her throat at the thought that she may have gone to the wrong building. She heard a car and looked to see the black Caddy she had raced on Boulange Boulevard, turning into the parking lot.

  Great. That creeper had followed her.

  FIVE

  KYLE RESOLVED THAT his best course of action was a trip to Benny’s Burgers, but he remembered they didn’t open until eleven. He knuckled the steering wheel. His heart stuttered at the realization he had just smacked Victor’s Caddy. But to sit in the parking lot at Benny’s, waiting for them to open, would be DMV boring, even figuring he could get the radio to play.

  He hated that he was running scared. He wished he had more information about what was really going on.

  Well, if Victor and Anthony were playing a practical joke, then it wouldn’t hurt to go to Victor’s address. At least Kyle would finally know the truth and stop worrying. But the cops had shown up, so if it wasn’t a joke and Victor was telling the truth, then the address would be a place to escape. And that note had said 11 a.m. Tuesday. Maybe the note was intended for Kyle since he hadn’t shown up last night. But if Victor wasn’t on the up-and-up, then things could turn out bad—drugs, kidnapping, extortion, murder.

  Then Kyle’s eyes were drawn to a billboard, a picture of Lara Stilltrot, looking like she’d just finished fending off an apocalypse, holding a latte with the caption: “Whenever my adventures bring me to Ravdale, I grab a latte from Greyso’s Grinds.”

  But this wasn’t Lara Stilltrot, Special Agent, this was the real world. And in the real world, it was a lot more likely that Victor was a little crazy but harmless.

  Kyle tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. His uncle Jake was a statistician, working for an insurance firm. He was always talking about probabilities and going on and on about odds. If Kyle was to follow his uncle’s approach then there were two options: go or don’t go to Victor’s address. And each option would yield one of three possibilities. So six possible outcomes. Going could yield one of two good possibilities—playing into the joke and ending it, or Victor being on the up-and-up. Or a single bad possibility—Victor was mental. Not going could yield one of two bad possibilities—continuing the joke or getting taken by the cops. Or one good possibility—avoiding a crazy man’s trap. Going meant better odds.

  He looked at the gun. If Victor snapped, Kyle could defend himself. But was it a real gun? Was it loaded? It didn’t matter because the decision was made. He would go to the address, which Kyle was happy to know was off of Boulange Boulevard.

  He drove Boulange Boulevard every day to get to work. And he knew that all those stupid Boulange roads were near the Ikea store. No GPS required. He executed a perfect U-turn at the next traffic light while paying homage, with his middle finger, to the No U-turn sign that oversaw the maneuver. The Caddy could turn on a dime. Maybe someday he would have his own.

  He pulled onto northbound Boulange. Traffic was almost absent as he approached the light at the intersection of Boulange and Incredulous Parkway. There was a vintage black Trans Am stopped at the light. Anthony had always said that when he was young, that early-80s Trans Am was a “pussy magnet,” but the engine wasn’t powerful, just small-block 305, whatever that meant.

  There was an average-looking girl at the wheel. Her shoulder-length brown hair was matted, and she looked too young to be driving. Then she turned to him, raised her thick left eyebrow, and smiled. Kyle wanted to smile back, but his facial muscles froze. Suddenly, she was the most beautiful girl alive.

  Her tires squealed and she sped off in a puff of smoke. Kyle hesitated, still paralyzed by a girl’s smile. Then his gaze found the rearview mirror. A junkyard pickup truck appeared, seeming only a foot behind the Caddy. The driver laid on the horn, ruining Kyle’s moment. Kyle pulled forward and the pickup zipped around and cut in front of Kyle, the driver shooting him the finger as he sped off.

  Kyle wondered how things like a gun came into play in his uncle’s probabilities. It had seemed pretty straightforward when Kyle reasoned that he should go to the address, but what if there were other factors that made the different outcomes more or less probable? The gun seemed to make it more likely Victor was crazy, and the Caddy and the cops seemed kind of elaborate for Anthony. Maybe odds weren’t so simple as he was making them. Maybe he was making a mistake. Or maybe his uncle was full of shit.

  Kyle was still rethinking the odds when he turned onto Boulange Street. Then he thought of the girl in the Trans Am. What would she think of him if she knew he was afraid? The thought of her smile was like a double energy drink on a Monday morning.

  When he pulled onto Boulange Circle, the backdrop of the world faded to a blur behind the Trans Am parked out front and the girl climbing out of it. His mind suddenly produced phantom smells, tastes, sensations from deep memories of the most attractive women he’d ever encountered, as if these sensations would all combine in this one female. Surely Kyle had made the decision with the best odds. Could this be fate?

  It appeared she had broken her car, the front bumper dangling. A shame. He pulled past her, making an extra effort to avoid potholes, and parked at the front entrance. He poked his head out and
looked back at the girl, thinking that the Caddy would impress her, but she was fixated on her bumper. Then her gaze met Kyle’s, her eyes hypnotizing him with hope of a warm touch and companionship.

  Then he remembered there was a gun on the seat. His breaths became shaky. He needed to hide the gun.

  He pulled the door shut and grabbed the newspaper from the back floor, using it to push the gun into the backpack. Should he leave the backpack in the car? He didn’t want to carry it around. But then he started to wonder again if the gun was fake. Surely it was part of Anthony and Victor’s prank. Who leaves a gun on the seat of their Caddy anyway? That was further evidence that it was a joke.

  A scratchy tap goosed Kyle’s attention. The girl was standing at the window. He twitched. Could she have seen the gun? He opened the door, pulling his backpack over his shoulders as he emerged.

  The girl barely moved to let him out.

  “You following me or something?” She leaned toward Kyle, her gaze vicious. “I hate creepers!”

  She seemed older up close. She was pale too, but he couldn’t fault her for that.

  “I’m not following you.” He was still a little light-headed from the fright she had given him. “I have a note from my upstairs neighbor, Victor. See?” He showed her the paper with the address.

  She looked Kyle over, her nostrils twitching like a rabbit smelling carrots.

  “Okay,” she said, “maybe you’re telling the truth, but don’t try to hit on me because you’ll get no traction here.” She gazed up at the sky and put her bony finger to her chin, looking contemplative. “Victor, huh?”

  “You know Victor too?”

  “Yeah, he’s got a job for me or something.” Her features relaxed. “I hate my job. I’m Remmie, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but I haven’t decided if you’re a creeper yet, or if you wash your hands after you go to the bathroom.”

  “I always wash my hands,” Kyle lied. He only washed if he was sure he’d gotten something on him, or if he was in a public restroom and there was someone else around. “And I’m not a creeper. I’m here to . . .” He wasn’t sure what to say. Victor hadn’t offered him a job.

  “You gonna tell me your name?”

  “Sorry. My name is Kyle. Nice to meet you, Renae.”

  “It’s Remmie! R-e-m-m-i-e.”

  “Sorry, I misheard. Remmie is not a common name.”

  “It’s okay. I get that all the time.”

  Who was Victor really? What was going on? “So, Victor. What job is he offering you? How do you know him?”

  “Well, I don’t really know him, per se. He shops at my store, the store where I work, the Green and Natural Food People . . .” She hesitated for a moment, like she feared that she was saying too much. “Victor asked me how I liked working there. I said it sucked. He said he was starting a business that I’d be interested in, and he gave me this address. So he’s your neighbor? He offer you a job too?”

  “No. I have a job I like. I cook hot dogs and brats in front of Smitty’s Hards and Wares.”

  “I thought you smelled kind of fried. No offense.”

  “That’s okay. It comes with the territory. Sorry about your bumper.”

  “You know anything about cars? This is my dad’s car. I wasn’t supposed to be driving it, but my car wouldn’t start. Sorry about dusting you back at that light.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not actually my Caddy. It’s Victor’s. He loaned it to me.” Kyle felt smug as he spoke. Loaning someone a Caddy was no small thing. “I don’t really know anything about car bodies, but I can change oil.”

  She crossed her arms. “Wow, so you and Victor must be close for him to loan you his Caddy and all.” She half-smiled. “You must be on the up-and-up.”

  Kyle smiled back, not knowing what to say. She was looking cuter by the moment with her talking to him and all.

  “We should probably go in and see Victor,” she said.

  “Yeah . . .”

  They approached the front door of the warehouse. Now that he actually looked at it, it was a dump—an old brick building that looked like the backdrop for a movie about the Great Depression. The door was dented metal with a trail of rust that looked like streaks of liquid running down. There was a small window in the upper middle with wire embedded in cracked glass.

  Remmie knocked. “Victor! It’s Remmie Dunin and Kyle . . .” She turned to Kyle.

  “Toewidch.”

  “Toe-dick you say?”

  “Toe-wick, like a toe on your foot and a wick in your candle.” Kyle almost called her Renae again, but caught himself in time.

  “Oh, okay. Whatever.”

  There was no answer at the door. Kyle tried knocking. Still no answer. He started to question whether it was all a joke again. Maybe the cops were fake, and maybe Reginald Lincoln was somebody else in the complex and Victor had borrowed—or stolen—the keys to his Caddy. Maybe Reginald was Lexus Girl’s husband.

  Maybe Remmie was in on the joke.

  “May I ask you a question?” Kyle said.

  “Sure, as long as it doesn’t involve the topic of dating or sex.”

  Where had that come from? That was surprisingly the furthest thing from his mind, yet he felt slighted by her statement. Anthony was right. You could get any girl if you had cojones and the right attitude. But Kyle didn’t have either.

  Remmie tapped her fingers on her arm, impatient. He remembered he was in the middle of a question.

  “No, I wasn’t going to ask that—about a date, or sex, I mean. I was going to ask you if this was a joke. Seriously, Victor and Anthony . . . this is a joke, right? The cops? Please tell me. It’s not funny anymore. It was never funny.”

  “You’re getting weird on me. I’m starting to think ‘creeper’ again.”

  “I swear I’m not a creeper.” Kyle tapped his heels. “Victor told me the cops were after me. He told me to take his Caddy. He gave me this address. You understand why I feel like I’m being played.” Kyle remembered the gun in his backpack, but he didn’t want to frighten her. “There’s a gun in my . . . on the floor of the Caddy. It’s not mine.”

  “I’d leave now if my car wasn’t dragging a bumper.”

  “I’m sorry, Rennie—”

  “It’s Remmie!”

  “Sorry, Remmie . . .” Kyle’s mind went blank. Why wasn’t he smoother? This was an opportunity to connect with a girl, and it was harder than balancing an equation in chemistry.

  “Hey, relax,” she said. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Remmie grabbed the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked. She pushed the heavy steel, which creaked and rattled on a slow yet unrelenting path to the weathered brick wall. Kyle became fixated on the sight and the sound. There was so much texture to the thick, crusted, glassy goo that was frozen to the door’s rusted façade like amber. Were there fossils in there? Did the high-pitched sound echo the many voices that once crossed this doorway before the goo formed? Maybe they were part of the goo. Was this a great factory from the age of old trades like Kyle’s uncle used to talk about, the ones with skilled hands, overalls, simple tools, before the economy changed and their trades were shipped to faraway lands . . .

  The door hit the wall with an echoing thump. Kyle jumped. The echoes dampened and faded to a vacuum of silence.

  “Let’s see if Victor is here,” Remmie said.

  She walked in, fearless. Should she just walk in like that? He followed.

  SIX

  THE AIR WAS dank and seemed to be holding Remmie back. Sunlight shone from the evenly spaced windows, throwing spears of pale light through a thin fog of floating dust particles. As her body submerged farther inside the walls she felt like she was in a dream, as if nothing existed in the world but that space.

  The floor was empty except for bits of wood, insulation, and crumpled paper. There was a muffled silence but for the echo of their footsteps. Was this the right Boulange Circle? But Kyle had come to the same ad
dress.

  Kyle kept close behind her, too close, almost stepping on the back of her ankle.

  “If you give me a flat tire, I’ll elbow you,” she said. “Back off.”

  “Sorry. Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know.” She hadn’t realized she was. “It seems like the thing to do in this kind of place.”

  As annoying as Kyle was, Remmie was glad he was with her. Safety in numbers.

  The door on the far wall had a small window like the one on the front door. There was a light on inside. Remmie took slow, measured steps. Kyle now kept his distance and she wished she hadn’t snapped at him, having felt more comfortable when he was closer. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, not knowing a thing about this Victor character or what he really did. It wasn’t smart to just up and go to some random address a stranger gave her at the store. Maybe Victor was the creeper. But her instincts told her she could trust Kyle—too goofy to be a threat.

  They reached the metal door. Its window was smudged with a residue, like dried molasses, and cracked in the corner. The light inside was dim.

  “Should we knock or something?” Kyle said.

  Remmie thought that was a good idea—her first impulse had been to just open the door. She gently knocked.

  “Hello? Mr. Victor?” She spoke in a subdued voice, but it still vibrated throughout the building. “It’s Remmie from the Green and Natural Food People, and your neighbor, Kyle. You in there? Is anybody in there?”

  Silence.

  Remmie put her face to the window and looked in through the goopy glass. There was a table. Behind it sat a counter with a tangled mess of wires, machines, and a desktop computer. There were papers on the table and what appeared to be photographs, but it was hard to make them out. She grabbed the doorknob and started to turn.