couldnât stay up past three or four.
Why not?
I donât know. We were so baked from the sun and probably dehydrated and malnourished.
Oh, said Thebes.
Loganâs chin clunked onto his chest and then snapped back up, then down again. He was out.
Hey, letâs draw on him, said Thebes. She was waving around a Sharpie.
No, donât, I said.
Iâll put 666 on his forehead.
No, donât, I said again.
But eventually you got off the island, she said.
Yeah, I said, so then finally, there was this guy, his name was Pantilas, I think, something like that, and he hated us, so he told us heâd make sure to get us to the boat on time.
Why did he hate you?
Because we were terrible olive pickers, I said. We tried to work for him.
Nothing you guys did worked out! she said.
Â
I adjusted my rear-view mirror and considered my current plan. Min had told me that at one point Cherkis was the curator of an art gallery in the middle of a field somewhere outside Murdo, South Dakota. It was an old, abandoned farmhouse. Cherkis had crammed all his art onto the main floor and was living in the second storey and the attic. He had taken a lot of blurry photographs. Min had once told me that Cherkisâs lifeâs work had been, maybe still was, to create the perfect level of pixel breakdown without compromising the essence of the image. He didnât feel right about charging admission and hatedthe idea of advertising, plus nobody really showed up anyway, where the hell is Murdo, let alone a field outside of it, let alone a dilapidated farmhouse/gallery, so eventually, actually really quickly, he went broke. But thatâs where we were going. Point A.
So, Murdo, eh? said Thebes.
Yeah, I said. He wonât be there, but maybe thereâll be someone who knows where he went.
He used to balance me on his face when I was a baby, and he tie-dyed all my onesies, said Thebes. Min told me.
Logan remembered smashing into a tree while trying to show off his flashing runners and Cherkis carrying him eight or nine blocks all the way to the hospital. They were both covered in Loganâs blood. Cherkis held him down while the Emergency staff stitched up Loganâs head, then he returned his kid intact to Min, and, with streaks of blood still on his face, left town in a silver rental car loaded with options.
Â
five
Iâ D FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE BORDER. Logan had dozed off again. I yanked on his hoodie and told him to wake up.
What the F, he said. Where are we?
Checkpoint Charlie, said Thebes. Act natural. We cruised past the wanky little âtuck stand,â as Logan called our Canada Customs building. Nobody was coming intoCanada, the guy inside the cracked booth looked like he was busy counting his ribs or something, and we pulled up to the shiny space-station Star Wars thing on the American side.
Donât say anything, Thebie, I mean it, I said to her.
Geez Louise! she said. Bust a cap in myâ
Seriously, keep your mouth shut. Please? Iâll give you a dollar.
I will too, said Logan.
Thebes dropped out of sight and hit the floor of the van.
No, no, I said, donât lie on the floor, Thebie, theyâll think weâre kidnapping you. She popped up again, sat there in this ridiculously erect position, and mimed zipping up her lips and throwing away the key.
Hello, I said to the guy. How are you?
He ignored the question and asked me where we were from, where we were headed (family reunion in Minneapolis) and how long weâd be gone (forty-eight hours). These your kids? he asked.
No, theyâre my niece and nephew. They wanted to ride with me, uh, but their parents are going too. Flying. I stuck my arms out and made a whooshing sound that Iâll regret all my life.
Is that true? the guy asked Logan.
Yeah.
This your aunt? he asked Thebes.
Nothing.
Hey there, darlinâ, said the guy, this your aunt?
Nothing.
Logan turned around and looked at her. I stared straight
Why not?
I donât know. We were so baked from the sun and probably dehydrated and malnourished.
Oh, said Thebes.
Loganâs chin clunked onto his chest and then snapped back up, then down again. He was out.
Hey, letâs draw on him, said Thebes. She was waving around a Sharpie.
No, donât, I said.
Iâll put 666 on his forehead.
No, donât, I said again.
But eventually you got off the island, she said.
Yeah, I said, so then finally, there was this guy, his name was Pantilas, I think, something like that, and he hated us, so he told us heâd make sure to get us to the boat on time.
Why did he hate you?
Because we were terrible olive pickers, I said. We tried to work for him.
Nothing you guys did worked out! she said.
Â
I adjusted my rear-view mirror and considered my current plan. Min had told me that at one point Cherkis was the curator of an art gallery in the middle of a field somewhere outside Murdo, South Dakota. It was an old, abandoned farmhouse. Cherkis had crammed all his art onto the main floor and was living in the second storey and the attic. He had taken a lot of blurry photographs. Min had once told me that Cherkisâs lifeâs work had been, maybe still was, to create the perfect level of pixel breakdown without compromising the essence of the image. He didnât feel right about charging admission and hatedthe idea of advertising, plus nobody really showed up anyway, where the hell is Murdo, let alone a field outside of it, let alone a dilapidated farmhouse/gallery, so eventually, actually really quickly, he went broke. But thatâs where we were going. Point A.
So, Murdo, eh? said Thebes.
Yeah, I said. He wonât be there, but maybe thereâll be someone who knows where he went.
He used to balance me on his face when I was a baby, and he tie-dyed all my onesies, said Thebes. Min told me.
Logan remembered smashing into a tree while trying to show off his flashing runners and Cherkis carrying him eight or nine blocks all the way to the hospital. They were both covered in Loganâs blood. Cherkis held him down while the Emergency staff stitched up Loganâs head, then he returned his kid intact to Min, and, with streaks of blood still on his face, left town in a silver rental car loaded with options.
Â
five
Iâ D FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE BORDER. Logan had dozed off again. I yanked on his hoodie and told him to wake up.
What the F, he said. Where are we?
Checkpoint Charlie, said Thebes. Act natural. We cruised past the wanky little âtuck stand,â as Logan called our Canada Customs building. Nobody was coming intoCanada, the guy inside the cracked booth looked like he was busy counting his ribs or something, and we pulled up to the shiny space-station Star Wars thing on the American side.
Donât say anything, Thebie, I mean it, I said to her.
Geez Louise! she said. Bust a cap in myâ
Seriously, keep your mouth shut. Please? Iâll give you a dollar.
I will too, said Logan.
Thebes dropped out of sight and hit the floor of the van.
No, no, I said, donât lie on the floor, Thebie, theyâll think weâre kidnapping you. She popped up again, sat there in this ridiculously erect position, and mimed zipping up her lips and throwing away the key.
Hello, I said to the guy. How are you?
He ignored the question and asked me where we were from, where we were headed (family reunion in Minneapolis) and how long weâd be gone (forty-eight hours). These your kids? he asked.
No, theyâre my niece and nephew. They wanted to ride with me, uh, but their parents are going too. Flying. I stuck my arms out and made a whooshing sound that Iâll regret all my life.
Is that true? the guy asked Logan.
Yeah.
This your aunt? he asked Thebes.
Nothing.
Hey there, darlinâ, said the guy, this your aunt?
Nothing.
Logan turned around and looked at her. I stared straight
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