THIRTY-FOUR:The ShedFeet pounded earth.The faces in the bus slid from view, drawn into time-lapse blurs as Julia increased speed. Her hands swung in tight fists, back and forth, hard and fast.The shed loomed closer.Julia was a mouse under the eye of an overhead hawk.She increased her speed but it just didn’t feel quick enough. Every step was half a step too short. She faltered, regained her footing, pushed onwards.Run.The shed door swallowed her whole.Darkness. The temperature dropped. A chill rocketed up her back like lightning in reverse, electricity retracing its jagged steps home to the clouds. Breathless, Julia dropped to her haunches. It took some time for her eyes to adjust.I made it. Her victory was so powerful she almost forgot where she was, and that she was only running from one hell to another.I did it! I did it!Her parents would be proud. If only they were here to witness her bravery. They would smile at her and clap their hands. When she returned t

THIRTY-TWOHalfway through the gap, the collar of Julia’s shirt tore on a twisted piece of metal. She reached for the hammer in her rear pocket. Gone. Shaken loose when the driver wrestled with her legs. Julia had no air in her lungs with which to scream, just a rattle. She glanced up at her sister who wasn’t looking at her, but at the driver in whom they had placed their trust at the beginning of that day, the woman who had hit the girl in the road and brought them to this horrible place, at the driver crawling onto the hood beside her.“Don’t go,” Liz pleaded. Julia felt her breath on her skin.Directly behind the driver’s wide, frightened eyes, the brother slid into Diana’s line of vision—an angry blur of tanned skin and tattoo.Julia sensed his presence and kicked, one foot connecting with the driver’s jaw. Crack.Jack tried to push the second bullet into the chamber of the handgun. Sweat dripped from his nose and he wished the faggot would shut up.Michael screamed at the ba

THIRTYYou did the right thing, Jack-o, said a voice he had never heard before.“Did I?” he asked.“Did you bloody what?” roared his father, who still held him by the arm. His other hand latched around the back of his neck, squeezing tight. “I ask the questions around here, got it?”Jack didn’t reply. He couldn’t take his eyes off the boy before the window, the boy whose hands were still wrapped in bloodied sheets. This boy was his cousin, Charles; he was six years old.“You speak to me when I speak to you, you little shit.”“Yes!” Jack yelled back.“Yes, bloody what?”“Yes, sir. Dad!”“Now you own up to me, boy. You own up to me or so help me God you’ll get a bigger bloody thrashing than what you already got coming. And trust me, a thrashing’s the least I should be doin’ to you.” His father bent in low, close to his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw yellow teeth. “Did you do this to young Charles over there?”The cousin stopped his screaming, stood and pointed at J

TWENTY-EIGHT:CampDiana awoke to the sound of seven gossiping friends. Two older teenagers slept on the other side of the cabin. She liked the counselors, idolized them—they didn’t judge, or bicker as much as she and her friends did. They respected each other, and Diana liked that about them.This would be her final year at summer camp.She planned to go for a swim, to help the younger visitors at meal times and take part in whatever activities were scratched on the chalkboards. Breakfast was in the dining room at eight. Large, wooden tables covered in toast and fruit. Diana played with her food and laughed when a slice of orange hit the cheek of a girl next to her. The culprit was nowhere to be seen. By nine o’clock she and the girls were in the canoes, life jackets around their necks. The girls talked about how cute the male counselor was. Twelve thirty rolled by and lunch disappeared down hungry mouths, boys made farting sounds, counselors huddled together and commented on the

TWENTY-SIXJack drove his fist into Michael’s face, watched the kid crumble to the floor and then jumped on him, arms thumping away. Michael kicked out in defense, one foot connecting with the base of his attacker’s jaw. That he connected at all was luck alone.The sound of a hundred busting soda cans under the heels of a hundred drunken men, followed by the tinkle of glass, exploded through Jack’s head. He faltered, clutching at the already forming welt, and watched the faggot wriggling out from under his knees.***Jed stood on the hood of his destroyed pickup. In his hands, he held the hammer, ribbons of hair clotted on its head. He pulled himself up onto the roof of the bus, which was white and reflected what little light remained in the day. The clouds were at the point of breaking, weeping. Wind shook the trees through the valley. As Jed slid across the surface of the bus, he left a snail trail of gore in his wake. Dirt blew against his face, although it was no longer a face,