Chapter 72
RESIDENCE-LINED Lagrange Road runs perpendicular to Main Street, one way straight down to the lake and the other out to the now-buried freeway.
Most importantly, it was four lanes of dust-swept, empty concrete.
The red cargo van swerved and quivered as the driver fought the steering wheel and his externally imposed dizziness, but wobbled right around the double yellow line.
“When I thump twice, get up beside him,” I said. “On the driver’s side.”
“How?” Ceren said. “He’s weaving all over.”
“Guts,” I said. My right wrist didn’t hurt at all, so I reached out my open window to seize the roof—
—and couldn’t grab it.
My wrist was as flexible as a concrete pillar. The fingers worked, and by making a fist I could flex the back of my hand, but the wrist itself felt as if I wore a
