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like a bucket of hot water and I hear something breaking. Probably my ribs. It sounds like chickenbones under a bootheel.
    I held Gandalf against me and thought, Bring the friend, sit in the friend, sit in the fucking PAL, you dump bitch!
    And now I’m sitting in the chum, sitting in the fucking pal, it’s at home but home doesn’t feel like home with all the clocks of Europe ringing inside my cracked head and I can’t remember the name ofthe doll Kamen gave me, all I can remember is boy names: Randall, Russell, Rudolph, River-fucking-Phoenix. I tell her to leave me alone when she comes in with the fruit and the fucking college cheese, I tell her I need five minutes. I can do this, I say, because it’s the phrase Kamen gave me, it’s the out, it’s the meep-meep-meep that says watch it, Pammy, Edgar’s backing up. But instead of leaving she takes the napkin from the tray to wipe the fret off my forehead and while she’s doing that I grab her by the throat because in that moment it seems to me it’s her fault I can’t remember my doll’s name, everything is her fault, including LINK-BELT . I grab her with my good left hand. For a few seconds I want to kill her, and who knows, maybe I try. What I do know is I’d rather remember all the accidents in this round world than the look in her eyes as she struggles in my grip. Then I think, It was RED! and let her go.
    I held Gandalf against my chest as I had once held my infant daughters and thought, I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I felt Gandalf’s blood soak through my pants like hot water and thought, Go on, you sad fuck, get out of Dodge.
    I held Gandalf and thought of how it felt to be crushed alive as the cab of your truck eats the air around you and the breath leaves your body and the blood blows out of your nose and those snapping sounds as consciousness flees, those are the bones breaking inside your own body: your ribs, your arm, your hip, your leg, your cheek, your fucking skull.
    I held Monica’s dog and thought, in a kind of miserable triumph: It was RED!
    For a moment I was in a darkness shot with that red; then I opened my eyes. I was clutching Gandalfto my chest with my left arm, and his eyes were staring up at my face—
    No, past it. And past the sky.
    â€œMr. Freemantle?” It was John Hastings, the old guy who lived two houses up from the Goldsteins. In his English tweed cap and sleeveless sweater, he looked ready for a hike on the Scottish moors. Except, that was, for the expression of dismay on his face. “Edgar? You can let him go now. That dog is dead.”
    â€œYes,” I said, relaxing my grip on Gandalf. “Would you help me get up?”
    â€œI’m not sure I can,” John said. “I’d be more apt to pull us both down.”
    â€œThen go in and see if the Goldsteins are okay,” I said.
    â€œIt is her dog,” he said. “I was hoping . . .” He shook his head.
    â€œIt’s hers,” I said. “And I don’t want her to come out and see him like this.”
    â€œOf course, but—”
    â€œI’ll help him,” Mrs. Fevereau said. She looked a little better, and she had ditched the cigarette. She reached for my right armpit, then hesitated. “Will that hurt you?”
    It would, but far less than staying the way I was, so I told her no. As John went up the Goldsteins’ walk, I got a grip on the Hummer’s bumper. Together we managed to get me back on my feet.
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ve got anything to cover the dog with?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, there’s a rug remnant in the back.”
    â€œGood. Great.”
    She started around to the rear—it would be a longtrek, given the Hummer’s size—then turned back. “Thank God it died before the little girl got back.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Thank God.”
    ix
    It wasn’t far back to my