The Leftovers

where she needed to wipe. It would have been easier if she’d just looked in the mirror, but all three of them understood that that was a bad idea.
    Finally, the driver turned around and started the car, heading down Lakewood toward Washington Boulevard. Laurie settled into her seat and closed her eyes.
    Brave, brave Meg.
    After a while she glanced out the window. They were leaving Mapleton now, crossing into Gifford, probably headed for the Parkway. Beyond that, she knew nothing about her destination and didn’t really care. Wherever it was, she would go there, and she would wait for the end, her own and everyone else’s.
    She didn’t think it would be long now.
    *   *   *
    THE BMW had built-in satellite radio, which was pretty cool. Tom had tried listening a few times on the way down from Cambridge, but he had to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the baby or irritate Christine. Now he could just crank it up, switching from old-school hip-hop to Alternative Nation to Eighties nostalgia to Hair Metal whenever he felt the urge. He stayed away from the Jam Band channel, figuring there’d be more than enough of that when he got to the Poconos.
    He was feeling a little less shaky now that he was on the highway. Escaping Mapleton had been the hard part. He kept heading out of town, then losing his nerve and circling back at the last minute to check on the baby. He did this three times before finally working up the courage to make the break, promising himself she’d be okay. He’d given her a bottle and changed her right before he left, so he figured she’d probably just sleep for a couple of hours, by which point somebody would get home to take care of her, or one of the neighbors would hear her crying. Maybe he could call his father from the next rest stop to say hi, pretend it was a coincidence, just to make sure everything was okay. If nobody answered, he could always call the cops from a pay phone, make an anonymous tip about a baby abandoned on Lovell Terrace. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
    In his heart, he was pretty sure he’d made the right decision. He couldn’t stay in Mapleton, couldn’t go back to that house, that kind of life, at least not without Christine. But he couldn’t take the baby with him, either. He wasn’t her father, and he had no job, no money, no place to stay. She’d be better off with his dad and Jill, if they decided to keep her, or with a loving adoptive family that would give her the kind of secure, stable life Tom could never provide, at least not if he didn’t want to be completely miserable.
    Maybe someday he and Christine could go back to Mapleton and reclaim her baby, re-create the family that Tom had dreamed about. It was a long shot, he knew that, and there was no point in getting ahead of himself. What he needed to do right now was find that solstice festival, join those Barefoot kids dancing under the stars. They were his people now, and that was where he belonged. Maybe Christine would be there, and maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, it sounded like a pretty good party.
    *   *   *
    JILL SAT on a raspberry-colored sling chair in the finished basement, watching the ball fly back and forth across the Ping-Pong table. For a pair of stoners, the Frost twins played with surprising skill and intensity, their bodies loose and fluid, their faces taut with concentration and controlled aggression. Neither one made a sound except for the occasional grunt, and a matter-of-fact announcement of the score before each serve. Otherwise it was just the hypnotic chatter of ball-against-table-against-paddle-against-table, over and over and over again, until one of the brothers seized his advantage, rearing back for a monster smash, which the other one more often than not managed to return.
    There was a beautiful symmetry to their game, as if a single person were occupying both sides of the table, hitting the ball to himself in a kind of self-sustaining loop. Except that one of the players—Scott, the one on the right—kept searching out Jill’s eyes in the lull between volleys, carrying on a silent conversation, letting her know that she hadn’t been forgotten.
    I’m glad you’re here.
    I’m glad, too.
    The score was tied eight to eight. Scott took a deep breath and hit a wicked spinning serve, slashing his paddle down on a sharp diagonal. Adam was caught off guard, leaning to the right before realizing his mistake, lurching all the way across the