I pictured myself getting my hair washed and fluffed amid the scattered flotsam of The Horseman script-a captive audience while Nate looked on and Aunt Donetta shared stories of internet romance and things meant to be. "That's okay. I don't want to take up your morning. I'm not going to do anything fancy."

Aunt Netta frowned. "You should let me do somethin' fancy. Fluff it up a little. You're such a pretty girl, Puggy, and it is Sunday, after all. The higher the hair, the closer to heaven."

I pictured myself going back to church with the Amber Anderson special, like the Austin girl on her way to meet her cyber Romeo. "I figured I'd just pull it back."

Aunt Netta snorted. "Let it curl up cute. Don't just put it in a ponytail holder. You got such nice hair." Before I could escape, Aunt Netta had grabbed my hair and pulled out the band, spreading weary, dust-laden ringlets over my shoulders. "More like that," she urged. "Only clean, of course."

She slipped the ponytail holder onto her arm. Unfortunately, it was the only one I had with me.

"Aunt Netta," I complained, stretching for the hair band, which she held out of reach.

"See ya downstairs," she said. "

Everybody's leavin' about ten-thirty." Everybody? I thought. Everybody who? Most of the time, Aunt Netta went to church by herself, because Uncle Ronald wasn't inclined to attend.

Aunt Netta paused in the doorway. "Oh, and they had to step up the time frame for the movie project. Mr. M. Harrison Dane's comin' here tonight at five. Isn't that excitin'? It's a big day in Daily!" She flashed a huge smile, then disappeared into the hallway before I could process the news or ask any questions.

My mind spun as I got out of bed, showered, and prepared for church. Where was Nate? When did he find out about the change in Dane's arrival time? Was he finished with the proposal? Was he in a state of panic?

Behind that thought, there was another one that lay cold and heavy on my chest. By the end of the day, our work on the movie proposal would be over, for better or for worse. I could go home.

The thought scratched like a thorn in my skin as I finished getting ready. I tried to concentrate on the basics. I left my hair down, put on a blue summer dress-one of those light, filmy things from India you can wad up and stick in the suitcase at the last minute. When I was finished, I stood in front of the mirror. I didn't look too bad, which was inappropriate, perhaps. Maybe I should have brought a darker dress, something in the bland grays of grief. ...

But it had been two years. Maybe it was all right to wear a floaty blue dress after two years. ...

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, it was followed by the ravenous guilt that haunted every good thing, every pleasant thought, swallowed it whole and reminded me that I didn't have a right to anything good.

I stared at myself in the mirror. How long until a blue dress is just a blue dress?

The mirror couldn't answer. I knew it wouldn't. Mirrors only confirm what you already know.

I gave up and went downstairs. Aunt Netta was waiting in the back hall. "Everybody else went on ahead," she said cheerfully, then stopped to look me over. "Oh, Puggy, don't you look pretty!" Holding my face between her hands, she smiled from ear to ear. "There's my girl. I'd give you a kiss, but that'd leave a lipstick scar." Her eyes welled, and I fully understood how important this morning was to her. I was glad I hadn't done anything to spoil it.

We headed off to church arm-in-arm. On the way, she talked about the new carpet in the sanctuary and the ongoing debate over replacing the old theater seats in the back with pews. "Bob says it's too much money, because we got perfectly good seats already, but then Betty Prine and her bunch say if we don't get things updated, some folks'll head over to First Baptist, McGregor."

Aunt Netta rolled her eyes. "By some folks, she means her and Harold, of course."

"I like the old seats," I said, picturing Betty Prine, her ba.s.set hound husband, Harold, and the rest of the Daily Literary Society cronies in the front rows. A cloud of dread formed over my head and started raining little black droplets. I wished they'd head over to First Baptist, McGregor today.

Fortunately, when we arrived at the church, Betty Prine and the Literary ladies were busy fawning over Justin Shay and Amber Anderson. They didn't even notice Aunt Donetta and me slipping through the crowded foyer, which I think was Aunt Netta's plan. We'd entered the sanctuary and settled safely in the third pew before Iris Mayfield pushed her walker in the back door, sat down at the organ, and began playing prelude music to call everyone to worship.

The Eldridge pew filled as my father entered with Willie, Mimi, and Frederico, who was wearing one of my father's old western suits and, oddly enough, looked good in it. Justin came down the center aisle shaking hands like a politician, hugging giddy women, and autographing church bulletins. Amber Anderson trailed along, seeming surprisingly embarra.s.sed by all the fuss. She looked as though she wished she could just walk into church without generating an event.

As the crowd filed in from the foyer, the church filled to capacity and beyond. Aunt Donetta got up to usher someone into the seat next to me as Brother Ervin took the pulpit and greeters rushed to set up extra chairs in the aisles. No doubt, Brother Ervin wished he had the draw of Justin Shay and Amber Anderson every Sunday. Attendance was up by fifty percent, at least. Normally, finding a seat wasn't a problem.

"Packed house," the person beside me said, and I recognized the voice. When I turned around, there was Nate. He drew back, studying me, and said, "Wow. You clean up pretty well."

I was filled with sensations that had nothing to do with church.

Fortunately, right then, the choir came in, and the service began with announcements. I felt people watching me as we stood to sing the first hymn, but then I realized they weren't watching me at all. Every eye in the room was focused on the little knot of visiting celebrities. Brother Ervin even offered them a special greeting, then explained that he was going to have Amber sing after the sermon, because Daily Baptist hadn't enjoyed a crowd like this in years, and he wanted to pretend that all the visitors were there to hear him talk. In the corner, a group of interloping Methodists jokingly pointed out that they'd gotten up and gone to early service down the road, and were on their second round for the day.

Across the aisle from us, Pearly Parsons, who was more likely to be seen on a fenceline on Sunday morning than in church, lifted his chin, smacked his lips, and crossed his arms over his chest, impatient to get on with things. This morning, he'd even brought his crew along. They were lined up in the pew beside him, looking confused. They were dressed for work and no doubt wondering how they'd ended up in church this morning instead.

As usual, there was a point to Brother Ervin's greeting. It led right into the sermon. "Yes, I've got to say I'm pleased to see so many Dailyians and guests in the Lord's house this morning', amen?" He gestured acknowledgment to Justin, Willie, and company. "We're all excited about this newest dose of fame for our little town. Why, between Amber's big finish on American Megastar and now Justin Shay comin' here, and this project out at the old Barlinger ranch, Daily hasn't had excitement like this since the bald eagles nested out at Boggy Bend. It's been something to see, especially for those of us who watched this old town go quiet, and the buildings close up, and the young folks move away."

Brother Erve gazed toward the back door as the crowd murmured in agreement, giving Justin and Amber appreciative looks. "It wasn't so long ago, Daily was a broken place, but now we got the cafe full of people, and trucks of construction materials pa.s.sin' through on the way out to the old Barlinger ranch, and the new Amber Anderson souvenir shop open next to the washateria in the Prine building. Ol' Harold even put up the money to fix the roof that's been leaking for ten years, and that's pretty close to a miracle in itself." He paused, and the crowd chuckled. On the front row, Harold and Betty couldn't decide whether they'd been insulted or praised, but finally Harold lifted a hallelujah hand in acknowledgment as Brother Erve went on.

"Yes, there's been a sure-enough case of Horseman fever around town lately, everyone pitchin' in to bring food to the volunteers and construction crew at the ranch, and helping with the work out there. It feels good to do good, amen?"

Brother Ervin paused, taking in a round of amens. Reaching behind the pulpit, he pulled out a sack, and the crowd grew silent. There was no telling, on any given Sunday, what Ervin Hanson would have in his paper bags. Once, he came in with a live bull snake hidden inside. Sometime later in the sermon, when he pulled the bag out again, it was empty. Ladies screamed and little kids crawled onto the pews, but Brother Ervin's point was made. If we were half as worried about the lost people among us as we were about that snake underfoot, the church would be full to the brim every Sunday. Shortly before pandemonium broke out, he produced the snake, safely tucked in a gla.s.s container.

Today, Brother Ervin had a set of spurs in his bag. Since that seemed like a fairly benign item, the crowd leaned in as he began to talk. I studied the spurs with interest. They were antique, the worn leather straps cracked and crisp, the heavy bra.s.s rowels darkened with the soft patina of age, testifying to the fact that many years had pa.s.sed since the pinwheel of sharp edges had touched flesh.

The spurs were wicked looking instruments; the old-fashioned kind charros wore in Mexico. My father always said that if a man couldn't control a horse without using tools like that, he didn't need the horse. At the end of our row, Dad crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the spurs.

Brother Ervin turned them over in his hand, touching a thumb to the ring of spines and appearing impressed by the sharpness. "Still pretty formidable, after all these years," he said, and chuckled, his round stomach shaking up and down where his polyester western suit hung open. "You know, I watched my daddy use these spurs on many an ornery young horse. He was a big man, served in the First World War, mounted infantry.

Went off when he was just sixteen, because he felt it was what he needed to do. He was one of those old-time cowboys that don't hardly exist anymore-lived by the code. Make no excuses and take no excuses. He was hard on horses and hard on kids. There was a lot of years I resented that. I was angry with the kind of man my father was."

Scanning the crowd, he sought the faces of others who felt the same, then nodded meditatively, the wrinkles deepening around his eyes. "Looking back, I think he did what he knew. Most folks go through life that way, when you get right down to it-they aren't trying to hurt anybody, they're just doin' what they know.

They learnt it from someplace, and they never thought about whether it was right or wrong. Mostly, what's done with us as a child is what we go on and do in life. My father's way got the job done. Many was the day he roped a colt, and if it fought, he just let the rope get tighter and tighter until the critter either gave in or choked down and fell to the ground. Sometimes, he used that old blacksnake whip and these spurs until there was hair and hide and blood all over the breakin' pen, him, the horse, and the rest of us." Flipping the rowel on the spur, he let it turn in the sunlight. The metal moaned softly and the jinglebobs chimed an eerie music as if they remembered the rise and fall of a boot.

"Watching him cured me of ever wanting to be a horse breaker. I figured if that was how the job got done, it wasn't for me. There's nothing easy about making a twelve-hundred-pound animal bend to your will." Down the row, Justin Shay nodded in agreement. Beside me, Nate grabbed a pencil and made a note on the church bulletin, and up front, Betty Prine glanced at her watch, giving the preacher a disgusted look. She hated it when Brother Ervin went off on a tangent. She wanted to get to the point, read Scripture, sing "Old Rugged Cross," and go home to Sunday dinner.

Brother Ervin pretended he didn't see her, as usual. "Now, back in them days, we still delivered milk and eggs around from our farm, and there was an old black man who lived on my route. A lot of you probably don't remember Hardy Pots, but he was the father of our Pastor Harve, out at Caney Creek Church. Hardy Pots was old and crippled up by the time I knew him, but he still broke horses for folks. I'd watch him sometimes when I pa.s.sed by his place, and I never saw a whip, or a spur, or heard his voice raised when he was in the corral with an animal. Seemed to me like he didn't do much but stand there and let the horses run around him. It never occurred to me to really ponder the reasons for that."

Pausing, Brother Harve set the spurs atop the pulpit, where the colored light from the windows fell over them, bathing them in red. "It's been only just recently I finally understood why it was always so quiet around old Hardy's corral. You see, I been readin' the book on which the movie is actually based, An Ordinary Horseman." Taking the book from behind the pulpit, he held it up for everyone to see. "If you haven't read it, I encourage you to. There's a few copies floatin' around town these days, and maybe even one in the library, if you're lucky. The book will help you understand the movie, but there's a deeper meaning here. This book'll tell you a lot about how we ought to be to each other, and how our heavenly Father is toward us."

Brother Ervin set the book aside and let the a.s.sertion-that something about G.o.d could be learned from a book about horses- settle. In the front rows, Betty Prine and the ladies of the Literary Society frowned back and forth at one another. They'd warned Brother Ervin in Church Council time and time again that examples should be strictly biblical. Brother Ervin went on, "You see, there's a lot of us think G.o.d is like my father was. They think He just throws on the rope and keeps the pressure up until we choke down, and when we go the wrong way, He lays on the blacksnake and the spur." With a benevolent smile, Brother Ervin shook his head at the spurs. "But you see, that's not how a good horseman works. A good horseman is patient. He's quiet. He knows that the horse's natural state is to live in partnership. Deep down, way down in its instincts, that animal realizes that isolation puts it in danger, makes it vulnerable. The horseman sees that truth all the while the animal is circlin' the corral, squealing and kicking and trying to keep as far away as he can, and so the horseman just waits. He waits because he knows the nature of the horse. He waits when the animal does wrong. He waits when it fights and runs away. He just moves real quiet around the corral. He lets that horse run all it wants, wear itself out as much as it needs to. Eventually, the horse figures out things aren't good out there by the fence. It stops and turns to the horseman, and comes into the center, and sees that's where peace is. That's where safety is. That's where rest and comfort lie."

Taking the spur from the red light, Brother Erve covered over the rowel with his hand, so that the sharp points were no longer visible. "G.o.d is a good horseman. He waits while we circle the fences of our lives-whatever they are, whether it be a bad childhood, or a destructive habit, family problems, an addiction, a personal tragedy, an inability to forgive someone else or to allow ourselves to ask forgiveness, or believe we deserve it. The Good Horseman waits, and each time we turn and look at Him, He stretches out His hand, slow and quiet, until finally, sooner or later, we reach for it, and we come to the center with Him, and find that peace was waiting there all along."

Iris Mayfield struck up the music, and Amber crested the steps to the microphone as Brother Erve let the last words fade. He took the spurs of a horsebreaker to the altar of the Good Horseman and laid them down atop the Bible. I watched metal touch the worn leather cover, felt the preacher's hand move away as if it were my own.

Where there was pain, I felt the beginnings of release, and all at once I understood that the Good Horseman had been waiting for me for a very long time.

Chapter 20.

Nathaniel Heath When the service ended, a crowd of hand-shakers mobbed our pew, and we were trapped. Lauren must have seen it coming, because she slipped out during the closing hymn and disappeared through the back door as The Shay's admirers gathered around.

Justin was in his element. Compared to the usual throng of screaming fans and jostling paparazzi, the Daily Baptists were pleasant people-friendly, laid back, definite foodies. We garnered at least a dozen invitations to Sunday dinner, and Bob offered to feed us at the cafe for free. Justin seemed to be entertaining the offers, so I took the opportunity to play Marla and remind him that he needed to head back to the hotel and focus on the proposal. It was now noon, T minus five hours in Horseman terms. When Dane arrived this evening, we had to be ready to whisk him off into the sunset, impress him with cowboy magic, convince him that Justin could do a picture without guns and car chase scenes, and dazzle the Dane kids with pony rides until their father had no choice but to attach himself to the project. With Dane committed, Randall and the studio would be hard pressed to fight it.

I hoped.

They wouldn't say no to M. Harrison Dane, would they?

No. No one would say no to Dane. All I had to do was get Justin back to the hotel and get him focused. Why that was my job, I couldn't say. I wasn't the one who had wanted this project in the first place. I was the one who said it was a stupid idea, yet here I was, worrying about scheduling and other practicalities while Justin sailed around the crowd like a cuttlefish, handing out autographs, posing for photos with Amber and the Dailyians, and acting like he had all the time in the world.

What's wrong with this picture?

He knows you'll do it, Oprah muttered in my head. He knows you'll play the adult, which leaves him free to act like a teenager at the prom. You should just step back. Leave it to him. It's his project. This happens every time. He acts like an idiot, and you end up stuck in jail in Morocco.

How's that workin' for ya? Dr. Phil added.

I pictured Dane showing up and Justin stumbling through the proposal materials, unprepared and bloated on chicken-fried steak and mile-high coconut pie from the Daily Cafe.

Not happening. Not.

I told Frederico we needed to get Justin out of there. Happy to oblige, Fred did a pretty good job of elbowing old ladies out of the way, gathering up The Shay, and clearing a path to the door, where we said good-bye to Amber, who was headed to some little town near Dallas for a fund-raiser but planned to be back in the evening before Dane arrived.

Justin was pouty about the idea. "I figured you'd come help me study the proposal, babe," he complained, his arm looped around her shoulder.

Amber's big blue eyes were filled with the self-inflicted guilt of a natural nurturer. "I'm sorry, Justin. I didn't know Mr. Dane was gonna decide to come today. This fund-raiser's been planned for weeks. If I don't go, they won't be able to put together the money so kids can have coats next winter. I thought I told you about thay-ut." She probably had, but Justin only heard what he wanted to hear. Right now, with Dane coming in a few hours, he was feeling pressured and needy. He wanted to lean on someone, preferably someone cute.

Amber cast a desperate look toward a van with a radio station logo on the side, already waiting for her in the parking lot. "Justin, I've gotta go. I'll be back this afternoon before Mr. Dane comes. I promise."

"Yeah," Justin muttered, slipping into pa.s.sive-aggressive protest mode as Amber kissed him on the cheek and hurried off. "Go ahead. I'll figure it out. If Nate hadn't taken so long to get me the proposal, we wouldn't be in a bind, anyway."

I gaped at The Shay, my sleep-deprived brain fishing for words. Back up a minute. Let's review. I've been kidnapped and taken to Texas. I've been working like a word slave for days, up all night to pull this rabbit out of a hat for you. I got up and went to church instead of sleeping, because I figured we probably needed a miracle to pull this off, and now this mess is my fault?

I'm going home. That's it. I'm going home. Let the horseman take care of himself. Whatever happens, happens. ...

"The Good Horseman is patient. ... " The words from the sermon repeated inconveniently in my head. "The Good Horseman waits, and each time we turn to look at Him, He stretches out his hand, slow and quiet, until finally, sooner or later we reach for it. ... "

By the door, Willie laid a hand on Justin's shoulder, saying, "Now, son, calm down. You ever seen a Thoroughbred on race day? He's a ball'a nerves from the minute he hears the tractors draggin' the track. He'll pace, and chew the stall door, and act up. If you don't watch him, he'll burn up the energy he needs for the race, just worryin' about it ahead. To win, he's gotta keep calm, stay focused, so that when the time comes, he can git out there and do what he's meant to do." Willie's big hand squeezed Justin's shoulder and he leaned close, meeting Justin's eyes, horseman to wannabe. "You gotta stay calm. Keep focused. I'll help you read-" Willie paused to cough, and the coughing turned into a spasm that sent him staggering off the porch. Imagene and Frank hurried down to check on him as he caught his breath and stood upright again, looking pale.

"Everything all right?" Brother Ervin asked as he closed the church doors.

"Fine." Willie's voice was hoa.r.s.e and spa.r.s.e. "Think I swallered a gnat."

Donetta cast a concerned look at Willie, and by the car, Mimi stopped conversing with Fred long enough to notice that her boyfriend didn't look so well. "Everything okay, sweetie?" she called, and Willie waved her off.

We all stood for a minute, trying to figure out what should come next. Finally Donetta suggested that Willie go back to Frank's to rest for a while. Since the beauty shop was closed today, Donetta and Imagene would help Justin study the proposal packet, or practice lines in the sample scenes, or whatever was needed. "I got some actin' experience, and back when American Megastar did Amber's hometown show, Imagene got interviewed. On national TV."

Justin didn't protest. He wanted someone to coddle him, and now he'd found someone. I considered being a fly on the wall during this afternoon's script session, but really, I wanted to go find Lauren. I'd been thinking all morning about what Donetta had said when she woke me up earlier.

"Sometimes G.o.d puts a new path under your feet, not because you think you're ready to walk it, but because He knows that's the way you need to go."

Maybe Donetta was right, or maybe it was just wishful thinking on both our parts, but I wanted to further investigate the possibility before my time with Lauren was officially over.

"I think I'll head back to the hotel on foot," I said as the group moved toward various vehicles in the parking lot. It was a nice morning, the town quiet in the reverent way of little towns after Sunday service, when everyone moves on to dinner at Grandma's house or the local cafe. I felt good inside, like Sunday was more than just another day for once, and that was the way it should be.

The pastor's sermon replayed in my head as I walked, and I considered the time I'd spent circling the fences of my life at top speed, looking for a way to bust through, to break away from my mom, from Doug, from pointless leftover childhood questions, like, If my grandparents loved me, why did they let my mother take me away time and time again? If my mother loved me, why was some guy she'd just met always more important? If my father cared about me, how could he die and leave me with my mom?

If the people who raised me didn't care about me, then I wasn't anything special and I never would be. ...

Doug was right. ...

All these years, I'd been battering the same barriers over and over and over, thinking that the answer lay in breaking through and leaving the past behind. I'd looked for the answer somewhere outside-my work, my house, my car, my name in the credits, a paycheck, A-list parties, friends with big names. But every time, I came up empty. The answer wasn't there. On the way back to the hotel, it dawned on me: Maybe the answer isn't in getting beyond where you come from but in learning to accept the things that went into your making. Maybe the secret is in looking at the end product and figuring out what it's good for.

I pondered it as I strolled the long way home, past the feed mill, where my steps echoed hollowly against the tall grain silos, and I could hear the river floating by. Maybe the point of life isn't in getting past it, but in making something of it.

The new frame of thought took shape in my mind, and I realized that I wanted to share it with Lauren. I looked for her when I got back to the hotel, but there was no one around other than Frederico, doing thigh burners in the exercise room, while Imagene, Donetta, and Justin sat gathered in the beauty shop. They were sharing chicken nuggets and gravy as Donetta read the proposal aloud. They were impressed with my work, which was nice, but in reality I could see that, between the distraction of the two of them talking and people pa.s.sing by outside the window, stopping to gawk or wave, Justin wasn't getting anything done.

"You'd probably better take that upstairs," I suggested, and he gave me a peeved sneer.

"I got it under control, Nate." Dipping a nugget in the gravy bucket, he leaned over and touched one of the pages, leaving behind a greasy smudge. I made a mental note to reprint a clean set before Dane arrived. No telling what shape these would be in.

"It's time to get focused." I sounded like somebody's mommy, but what other choice was there? For whatever reason, Justin wasn't getting down to business, and time was running short. He needed to concentrate, and generally, he only did that when there was no one around to play with.

Imagene regarded me in an acute way, then nodded as if she understood. "You know what, Netta. We should head on over to Frank's place and take them some of this pie."

Donetta straightened in her chair. "I gotta help Justin go over his script, Imagene. Besides, Frank took a pie home from the cafe yester-dey. They probably still got some left."

Imagene's eyes widened, and behind Justin's back, she thumbed insistently toward the door. Donetta ignored her and focused on the papers. Finally, Imagene grabbed Donetta's arm and tried to lift her out of the chair, and for a minute, I thought we were about to be ringside for a wrestling match.

"Uhhh ... we can just go upstairs," I suggested, and got another annoyed frown from Justin. As long as there were people, and pie, and a constant stream of admirers pa.s.sing by the window down here, he wasn't in the mood to leave.

"Nonsense." Imagene was a determined woman when she had her mind set. "We'll just head on out to Frank's and leave the buildin' quiet for you boys. We'll take Frederico with us. You can have the whole place to yourselves to get ready for this evenin' and such. Besides, Donetta and me ought to go check on Willie and make sure he's feelin' all right, shouldn't we, Netta?"

Peering up over the top of her bifocals, Donetta smacked her lips as if she had a bad taste in her mouth, but then finally acquiesced. "Oh, you're right, I guess we should. Knowin' Frank, he'll have Willie out in the pasture a'horseback. Somebody's got to take care of the poor man, him havin' that lung cancer and all. He-"

"Netta." Imagene pulled Donetta's sleeve, and it was clear to me, even if Donetta seemed oblivious to it, that a rather large cat had just escaped the bag.

"Well, it's not like you could count on that Mimi to do it." Donetta was completely oblivious to the secret now prowling the room. "You know, he hadn't even told her he has cancer, and her supposed to be his girlfriend and all. Can you imagine-"

"Netta!" Imagene's protest filled the s.p.a.ce between us, and then everything went silent. "That ain't any of our business."

Donetta laughed, batting away the words with savoir faire. "Pppfff, I'm a hairdresser. Everything's my business."

"Maybe he don't want folks to know." Imagene cleared her throat, and from the body language I could tell she meant The Shay and me.

The hollow under Donetta's cheekbones went red. "Oh, gravy," she murmured, her mouth falling open. "I didn't figure it was a secret from everybody. I just thought he wasn't tellin' Mimi-that maybe he figured if she knew, she wouldn't stay around. She don't seem like the type to stick around, Willie bein' so much older than her, and his odds not bein' very good and all."

"Netta!" Grabbing Donetta's arm, Imagene hauled her to her feet, snagged a suitcase-sized red purse off the shelf, stuffed it into Donetta's hands, and said, "We're goin'. Y'all two just go on with what you need to be doing." She hustled Donetta out the back, the two of them arguing all the way. Frederico followed, looking confused.

When they were gone, I turned my attention to Justin. He was watching a family on the sidewalk, each of them carrying a bag from the Amber Anderson souvenir shop across the street. They peered in our window and waved, but Justin just stared at the gla.s.s, unfocused.

"Shay-man," I said, but he didn't react. "Hey, Shay-man." I flashed a hand in front of his face, and he blinked. "You all right?" I waved to the onlookers on behalf of The Shay, and the family moved on.