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as she had done every other time, settled her eyes on me, smiled, and said, “Your aura is oh my God!”
    The assistant rushed to Mama’s side. After a flurry of whispering, an ascendancy of larks, the assistant turned to the assembled.
    â€œYou’ll all need to leave now, except that boy. He will to come talk with Mama. Thank you for having us; it’s been a wonderful night.” She instantly began ushering people out.
    Obviously I’d done something wrong. Maybe Mama knew I held her tricks in contempt. I stood, looking down, while everyone else filed out, glaring at me.
    Mama beckoned; I approached.
    â€œHave a seat. You got an aura could knock down a horse.”
    â€œIs that bad?”
    â€œIt’s not good or bad, just the way it is.”
    â€œAre you mad at me?” I wondered.
    â€œNo. I got news. Sometime between now and Christmas you’ll most likely die. Ice or cold water is what I see. That’s it.”
    She stood. The assistant rushed to her and was helping her to the door before I found my voice.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI tell you this as a warning; maybe it’ll help.” She didn’t turn around. “If not, they won’t find your body till next spring.”
    I left Antioch at the end of August, forgot most of what I learned there.
    That winter a group of friends was crossing Clear Lake, near my house, and it cracked underneath us. Seven drowned. I survived because at the last minute I hesitated closer to the bank than the others, yelled at Skid to stay behind me, a premonition or a memory. I still fell through the ice, submerged. Skid pulled me out, pushed the water out of my lungs. I started breathing seven minutes later—a minute for every dead friend—and stayed in the hospital for a week. My mother didn’t visit once, but the seven who drowned stood around me every day, close to my bed. Sometimes they told me to get better; sometimes they invited me to come away. It was a difficult decision.

    Voices on the stereo mixed with childhood memories, ancient deceptions, nameless guilts, waking nightmares, old words that ought to have been buried but would not die. I turned up the volume.
    A half an hour later Andrews called down, “Kind of loud, isn’t it?”
    The record was blasting; bass made books next to the speakers jump and twitch.
    â€œAndrews,” I answered, “I’ve been thinking.”
    â€œOh God.” His voice was muffled from his room, but I could hear the tone.
    â€œAbout this perspective shift.”
    â€œWhat about it?” He appeared at the top of the stairs in his robe, drying his hair.
    â€œWhat if the events of Thursday night didn’t transpire the way we think they did, the way Skid outlined?”
    He stopped rubbing his hair, his voice weary. “In what way?”
    I turned the stereo down. “What if Harding Pinhurst wasn’t the victim?”

Four
    â€œChrist, he’s the dead one,” Andrews insisted incredulously, lumbering down the stairs. “Of course he was the victim!”
    â€œWe don’t know he’s the only one dead.” I lifted the needle, turned off the stereo. “Truevine’s missing; no one knows where Able is.”
    â€œBut in this case the definition of victim —”
    â€œYou know,” I said, “a hot shower does sound good. I hope you didn’t use all the water.”
    An expletive exploded from Andrews that made the house creak. He returned to his room.
    â€œWhy couldn’t you look at it another way?” I said, climbing the stairs after him. “Harding was angry enough to attack Able, Able defended himself, Harding fell down the hill, hit his head, Able panicked, now the Deveroes are out for blood, so Able’s the victim.”
    â€œYou’d panic, too,” he shouted from his room, “if the Deveroe boys were after you!”
    â€œThey saved my life last year on the