False Memory

were excruciatingly civilized and eager to facilitate one another’s quests for personal fulfillment, Claudette announced to her children that a quick and uncontested divorce would be followed immediately by a new marriage.
    Dusty and Skeet ceased all celebration. Within twenty-four hours, they knew that soon the day would come when they would be nostalgic for the golden age during which they had been marked by the ruling thumb of the humbug Holden, because Dr. Derek Lampton would no doubt brand them with his traditional ID number: 666.
    Now Skeet brought Dusty back from the past: “You look like you just ate a worm. What’re you thinking about?”
    He was still in the fetal position on the bed, but his rheumy eyes were open.
    “Lizard Lampton,” Dusty said.
    “Oh, man, you think too much about him, and I’ll be trying to talk you down from a roof.” Skeet swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
    Valet went to Skeet and licked his trembling hands.
    “How’re you feeling?” Dusty asked.
    “Postsuicidal.”
    “Post is good.” Dusty withdrew two lottery tickets from his shirt pocket and offered them to Skeet. “As promised. Picked these up at the convenience store near here, where they sold the big winning ticket last November. That thirty-million-dollar jackpot.”
    “Keep them away from me. My touch’ll suck the luck right out of ‘em.”
    Dusty went to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and withdrew the Bible. He paged through it, scanning the verses, and then read a line from Jeremiah: “‘Blessed is the man who trusts in God.’ How’s that?”
    “Well, I’ve learned not to trust in methamphetamines.”
    “That’s progress,” Dusty said. He tucked the pair of tickets into the Bible, at the page from which he’d read, closed the book, and returned it to the drawer.
    Skeet got up from the bed and tottered toward the bathroom. “Gotta pee.”
    “Gotta watch.”
    Turning on the bathroom light, Skeet said, “Don’t worry, bro. Nothing in here I could kill myself with.”
    “You might try to flush yourself down the john,” Dusty said, stepping into the open doorway.
    “Or make a hangman’s noose out of toilet paper.”
    “See, you’re too clever. You require diligent security.”
    The toilet had a sealed tank and a button-flush mechanism: no parts that could be easily disassembled to locate a metal edge sharp enough to slash a wrist.
    A minute later, as Skeet was washing his hands, Dusty withdrew the folded pages of the notepad from his pocket and read aloud Skeet's handwritten message: “Dr. Yen Lo.”
    The bar of soap slipped out of Skeet’s grip, into the sink. He didn’t try to pick it up. He leaned against the sink, his hands under the spout, water sluicing the lather off his fingers.
    He had said something as he dropped the soap, but his words had not been clear over the sound of the running water.
    Dusty cocked his head. “What’d you say?”
    Raising his voice slightly, Skeet repeated: “I’m listening.”
    Puzzled by that response, Dusty asked, “Who’s Dr. Yen Lo?”
    Skeet didn’t reply.
    His back was to Dusty. Because his head was bowed, his face couldn’t be seen in the mirror. He seemed to be staring at his hands, which he still held under the running water, although every trace of soap had been rinsed from them.
    “Hey, kid?”
    Silence.
    Dusty moved into the cramped bathroom, beside his brother.
    Skeet stared down at his hands, eyes shining as if with wonder, mouth open in what appeared to be awe, as though the answer to the mystery of existence was in his grasp.
    Soap-scented clouds of steam had begun to rise out of the sink. The running water was fiercely hot. Skeet’s hands, usually so pale, were an angry red.
    “Good God.” Dusty quickly turned off the water. The metal faucet was almost too hot to touch.
    Evidently feeling no pain, Skeet kept his half-scalded hands under the spout.
    Dusty turned on the cold water, and his brother submitted to this new torrent without any change of expression. He had exhibited no discomfort whatsoever from the hot water and now appeared to take no relief from the cold.
    In the open doorway, Valet whimpered. Head raised, ears pricked, he backed a few steps into the bedroom. He knew that something was profoundly wrong.
    Dusty took his brother by one arm. Hands held in front of him, gaze still fixed on them, Skeet allowed himself to be led out of the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, studying them as if reading his fate in the lines of his palms.
    “Don’t move,”