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hadn’t . . .”
    â€œDrop it,” Adrian said.
    We walked up Third Street, two by two, the Nash brothers in front. I have heard people describe tragic events as surreal, even dreamlike. They say it was like watching a show through a foggy pane of glass. As the tragedy unfolds before them, often in slow motion, they are sure it is simply a dream from which they will awaken. That was never the case with me and the death of Petey Sanchez. From the time we entered the clearing until Petey dropped couldn’t have been much more than sixty seconds. Yet, the event still remains crisp in my memory. It is more than three decades past, yet I can recall with vivid clarity the sound of granite crushing bone and brain.
    Surreal, however, is a word I would use to describe walking down Third Street after we left Fats Pennington’s antique shop as if nothing in the world had changed. The sun was high and the blue sky stretched from the foothills to our west, across the Ohio River and beyond the hills of West Virginia for as far as we could see. And there we were, walking down Third Street, four of Crystalton’s favorite sons—All-American-looking kids, clean-cut athletes— enjoying a beautiful summer day. We strolled down the street as though we didn’t have a care in the world, smiling, waving at passing cars, and talking about going to the evening swim at the community pool that night. I have thought about that all these years. Petey was dead in the bushes and we were going swimming. When we got to the bottom of Hudson Hill, Adrian and Pepper turned up Gilchrist Street toward their home.
    â€œSee ya later,” Adrian said.
    â€œLater, ‘gator,” Pepper added.
    â€œYeah, see you around,” Deak said.
    â€œSee ya,” I said.
    Deak and I walked in silence past the high school and the Big Dipper Ice Cream Shop. He broke the silence. “They’re talking about me right now.”
    â€œWho’s talking about you?” I asked in a hushed tone.
    â€œAdrian and Pepper.”
    â€œThey’re worried that you’re not going to be able to hold it together.”
    â€œWhy do they think that? I’ve always been a good friend.”
    â€œThey’re just scared, Deak. Put yourself in Adrian’s position.”
    â€œI would never allow myself to get in that position.”
    â€œYou don’t know that, Deak.” I snapped my fingers. “It happened just that fast. I’m sure Adrian would like to have that instant back, but it’s water over the dam.”
    We walked in silence for a few minutes. “How long until someone finds his body?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know. Not long. Couple of days at the most, I’d guess. Someone will find him.”
    Deak looked at me and frowned, a brow arched in a quizzical manner. “Do you remember seeing his bicycle anywhere?”
    â€œNow that you mention it, no.”
    â€œWhat do you think he was doing up there?”
    When we emerged from the path Petey was just standing in the clearing, like he was waiting on a bus, and I recalled wondering the same thing—what is he doing on Chestnut Ridge and where was his bike? However, the ensuing events had erased the question until that minute. “That’s a good question. I have no idea.”
    â€œThe clearing is a half-mile up that steep path. He certainly wasn’t hunting arrowheads, and when was the last time you saw Petey Sanchez without his bicycle?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œSo, what was he doing up there?”
    â€œIt was Petey, Deak. You’re asking me to make sense of his actions? Who knows why Petey did the things he did.”
    â€œIt just seems strange, is all.”
    â€œTry not to think too much about it, Deak. It’ll make you crazy. We need you to hold it together.”
    â€œI will. Don’t worry about it.” We walked past the community center and Blackie Mehtal’s auto repair