BOXES OF DEAD CHILDREN, by Darrell SchweitzerWhen the last of the workmen were done installing his “effects” into his new abode and the last of their trucks disappeared down the rough, gravel road, he really wished he could just blow up the little bridge that connected him with the rest of the world and become the most spectacular recluse since Howard Hughes. He pressed down, hard, on the imaginary plunger. Boom! The place was called Eagle’s Head for some obscure reason, a little knob of land off the Maine coast at the end of a peninsula, amid tiny, rocky islands. High tides had washed away just enough that where he stood was an island now, too, but for that bridge, and if he could blow it up, well, all the better, because a gazillionaire minus his gazillions still has some resources left
