The Leftovers

smile.
    *   *   *
    THE SLEEPOVER had seemed like a cool idea in the abstract. But now that she was actually walking toward Ginkgo Street, Jill could feel some resistance building up inside of her. What were she and Ms. Maffey going to do all night? The idea of talking in whispers had seemed exciting at first, even vaguely illicit, like campers staying up past curfew. On reflection, though, it struck her as dishonest, like serving people ice cream on their first night at the fat farm.
    Hey, have some more hot fudge! You’re gonna love it here at Camp Lose-a-Lot!
    She wasn’t as happy about Aimee moving out as she might have expected, either. Not for her own sake—they’d been over each other for a while now—but for her father’s. He’d gotten pretty attached to Aimee in the past few months and would be sad to see her go. Jill had been jealous of their friendship, and even a bit worried about it, but she was also aware of how much pressure it took off her, and how much more her father would be needing from her in the coming days and weeks.
    Not a great time to be leaving him alone, she thought, switching the sleeping bag from her left hand to her right as she made her way down Elm Street.
    She stopped short, startled by what sounded like a gunshot coming from the direction of Bailey Elementary. A firecracker, she told herself, but a cold shudder ran through her body, accompanied by a harrowing vision of the dead man she’d found by the Dumpster on Valentine’s Day—the liquid halo encircling his head, his wide eyes staring in amazement, the endless minutes they’d spent together waiting for the police to arrive. She remembered talking to him in a soothing voice, as if he were still alive and just needed a little encouragement.
    Only a firecracker …
    She wasn’t sure how long she’d been turned away from the street, listening for a second explosion that never came. All she knew was that a car was veering toward her when she turned around, moving quietly and way too fast, as if it meant to run her down. It straightened out at the very last second, swooping in parallel to the curb, stopping neatly beside her, a white Prius facing in the wrong direction.
    “Yo, Jill!” Scott Frost called from the driver’s seat as the tinted window descended. A Bob Marley song was playing on the car stereo, the one about the three little birds, and Scott was grinning his usual blissed-out grin. “Where you been hiding?”
    “Nowhere,” she said, hoping she didn’t look as rattled as she felt.
    His eyes narrowed as he studied the sleeping bag in her hand, the overnight bag slung across her chest. Adam Frost was leaning in from the passenger seat, his identical handsome face stacked a little above and behind his brother’s.
    “You runnin’ away?” Scott asked.
    “Yeah,” she told him. “I think I’m gonna join the circus.”
    Scott considered this for a few seconds, then chuckled approvingly.
    “Awesome,” he said. “You need a ride?”
    *   *   *
    THE GETAWAY car was right where it was supposed to be. There were two men up front, so Laurie opened the back door and climbed inside. Her ears were still ringing from the blast; it felt as though she were encased in the hum, as though a solid barrier of sound had intervened between her and the rest of the world.
    It was better that way.
    She was conscious of the men staring at her, and wondered if something was wrong. After a moment, the one in the passenger seat—he was a tanned, outdoorsy guy—opened the glove compartment and removed a Ziploc freezer bag. He peeled it open and held it out.
    Right, she thought. The gun. They want their gun back.
    She lifted it with two fingers, like a TV detective, and dropped it in, trying not to think about the difficulty she’d had removing it from Meg’s hand. The man gave a businesslike nod and sealed the bag.
    Evidence, Laurie thought. Hide the evidence .
    The driver seemed upset about something. He was a moonfaced youngish guy, slightly bug-eyed, and he kept tapping himself in the forehead, like he was reminding a stupid person to think. Laurie didn’t understand the meaning of the gesture until the guy in the passenger seat handed her a Kleenex.
    Poor Meg, she thought, as she brought the tissue to her forehead. She felt something wet and sticky through the paper. Poor, brave Meg.
    The guy in the passenger seat kept handing her tissues, and the driver kept touching various parts of his face to indicate