Albee swerved to avoid hitting the boy, even as a part of his mind screamed at him that the boy wasn’t there, that the boy couldn’t be there. The other part of his mind watched with shocked resignation as the car bounced up over the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, the impact knocking his hands free of the steering wheel. The car drove into the front of the Wellingtons’ house, smashing through the front windows and into the living room before jerking to a sudden stop that set off the airbags. That’s the way Albee remembered it, anyway. Because one second he was driving along the street, looking at the strange clouds and the dead trees, and the next second he was staring through the windshield at Linda Wellington, who was cowering on her couch, screaming and hitting the front of
