Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

wasn't going to say anything, I wasn't going to say anything, so I shook my head no. “I could make up a story?” “No thank you.” “Or look for mistakes in the Times?” “Thanks, Mom, but not really.” “That was nice of Ron to tell you about his family.” “I guess so.” “Try to be nice to him. He's been such a good friend, and he needs help, too.” “I'm tired.”
    I set my alarm for 11:50 P.M., even though I knew I wouldn't sleep.
    While I lay there in bed, waiting for the time to come, I did a lot of inventing.
    I invented a biodegradable car.
    I invented a book that listed every word in every language. It wouldn't be a very useful book, but you could hold it and know that everything you could possibly say was in your hands.
    What about a googolplex telephones?
    What about safety nets everywhere?
    At 11:50 P.M., I got up extremely quietly, took my things from under the bed, and opened the door one millimeter at a time, so it wouldn't make any noise. Bart, the night doorman, was asleep at the desk, which was lucky, because it meant I didn't have to tell any more lies. The renter was waiting for me under the streetlamp. We shook hands, which was weird. At exactly 12:00, Gerald pulled up in the limousine. He opened the door for us, and I told him, “I knew you'd be on time.” He patted me on the back and said, “I wouldn't be late.” It was my second time in a limousine ever.
    As we drove, I imagined we were standing still and the world was coming toward us. The renter sat all the way on his side, not doing anything, and I saw the Trump Tower, which Dad thought was the ugliest building in America, and the United Nations, which Dad thought was incredibly beautiful. I rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. I curved my hand like an airplane wing. If my hand had been big enough, I could've made the limousine fly. What about enormous gloves?
    Gerald smiled at me in the rearview mirror and asked if we wanted any music. I asked him if he had any kids. He said he had two daughters. “What do they like?” “What do they like?” “Yeah.” “Lemme see. Kelly, my baby, likes Barbie and puppies and bead bracelets.” “I'll make her a bead bracelet.” “I'm sure she'd like that.” “What else?” “If it's soft and pink, she likes it.” “I like soft and pink things, too.” He said, “Well, all right.” “And what about your other daughter?” “Janet? She likes sports. Her favorite is basketball, and I'll tell you, she can play. I don't mean for a girl, either. I mean she's good.”
    “Are they both special?” He cracked up and said, “Of course their pop is gonna say they're special.” “But objectively.” “What's that?” “Like, factually. Truthfully.” “The truth is I'm their pop.”
    I stared out the window some more. We went over the part of the bridge that wasn't in any borough, and I turned around and watched the buildings get smaller. I figured out which button opened the sunroof, and I stood up with the top half of my body sticking out of the car. I took pictures of the stars with Grandpa's camera, and in my head I connected them to make words, whatever words I wanted. Whenever we were about to go under a bridge or into a tunnel, Gerald told me to get back into the car so I wouldn't be decapitated, which I know about but really, really wish I didn't. In my brain I made “shoe” and “inertia” and “invincible.”
    It was 12:56 A.M. when Gerald drove up onto the grass and pulled the limousine right next to the cemetery. I put on my backpack, and the renter got the shovel, and we climbed onto the roof of the limousine so we could get over the fence.
    Gerald whispered, “You sure you want to do this?”
    Through the fence I told him, “It probably won't take more than twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.” He tossed over the renter's suitcases and said, “I'll be here.”
    Because it was so dark, we had to follow the beam of my flashlight.
    I pointed it at a lot of tombstones, looking for Dad's.
    Mark Crawford
    Diana Strait
    Jason Barker, Jr.
    Morris Cooper
    May Goodman
    Helen Stein
    Gregory Robertson Judd
    John Fielder
    Susan Kidd
    I kept thinking about how they were all the names of dead people, and how names are basically the only thing that dead people keep.
    It was 1:22 when we found Dad's grave.
    The renter offered me the shovel.
    I said, “You go first.”
    He put it in my hand.
    I pushed it into the dirt and stepped all of my weight onto it. I didn't