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He had not cut his hair for seven years。 He had never had a permanent address。 He seldom visited a town or a city more than once。 There were only a few places he avoided。 Austin。 New Orleans。 And North Carolina； until now。
His twenty…fifth birthday had recently e and gone； celebrated only by the crossing of state lines； a thing that always exhilarated him a little no matter how often he did it。 Trevor often came close to forgetting his own birthday。 All it had meant in the Boys' Home was an ugly new shirt and a cupcake with a single candle on it； reminders of everything he didn't have。
And besides； his birthday was overshadowed by the more important anniversary just after it。 The anniversary that fell tomorrow。
Twenty years since it happened； and every year strung heavy as a millstone round his heart。 Four…fifths of his life spent wondering why he wasn't dead。 It was too long。
Recently he had started having a dream of the house on Violin Road。 All through his childhood Trevor had dreamed of that last morning； that bloody morning that seemed to drip through his memory like molasses； dark and slow。 That was a familiar nightmare； infrequent now。 But this new dream was different； and had been ing several times a week。
He would find himself sitting in the little back bedroom Bobby had used as a studio； staring at a blank sheet of paper on the drawing board。 Trevor usually drew ics in his sketchbook； but Bobby had used looseleaf paper for Birdland。 Only there was no Birdland on this sheet of paper。 There was nothing on it； and he could think of nothing to put on it。 It stared him in the eye and laughed at him； and Trevor could almost hear its dry sardonic whisper： The abyss stares back into you？ Ha！ Nothing to see but a liver pickled in whiskey and the ashes of a million burnt…out dreams。
Awake； Trevor couldn't imagine not being able to draw。 He could always make his hand move。 An empty page had always been a challenge； a space for him to fill。 Awake； it still was。 But in this dream； the blank sheet of paper was a mockery。
And he didn't drink whiskey； or any other kind of alcohol。 He had never taken a drink in his life。
Trevor found that this dream bothered him more than the ones in which he saw his family dead。 Drawing had been the only thing he cared about for such a long time。 Now he was beginning to understand how the loss of it could drive someone insane。
He started to worry： what if the hollow； paralyzed feeling of the dream infiltrated his waking life？ What if someday he opened his sketchbook and his hand went stiff； his mind numb？
The night he woke up with a broken pencil in his hands； the edges of the wood as raw as a fractured bone； the sound of the snap still echoing like a leftover shred of nightmare through his lonely boardinghouse room； Trevor knew he had to go back to the house。 He was sick of wearing his past like a millstone。 He would not let his art bee one too。
The bus passed a wreck just outside Missing Mile； a small car crumpled in a ditch； sparkling shards of glass picking up the whirling red and blue lights； making the scene seem to revolve psychedelically。 Trevor cupped his hands to the window； pressed his forehead to the glass。 Paramedics were loading someone into the ambulance； strapped to a stretcher； already punctured with needles and tubes。 Trevor looked straight down into the person's face and saw that it was a girl； maybe close to his age； face drenched with blood； chest crushed in； eyelids still fluttering。
Then…he saw it…the life left her。 Her lids stopped moving and he saw her eyes freeze on a point beyond him； beyond anything he would ever see in this world。 The medics kept moving； shoved her into the ambulance and slammed the doors； and she was gone。 Yes； she was gone。
Great； he thought。 An omen。 Just what I needed。
A few minutes later the bus pulled into the parking lot of the Farmers Hardware Store； the flatiron…shaped building that stood lone and proud among lesser downtown structures like the prow of some landlocked ship。 A small ticket office at the back and a bench in the parking lot served as Missing Mile's bus station。 The Greyhound groaned to a stop alongside the deserted bench。
Trevor hoisted his backpack and made his way down the aisle； then down the steps。 His feet touched North Carolina ground for the first time in two decades； and a shiver ran through him like a tiny electric chill。 No one else got off。
The bus had seemed hot； but the humid swelter of the night outside made him realize it had been air…conditioned。 The air pressed like a soft damp palm against his face； delicious with the scents of honeysuckle； wet grass； hot charcoal and the rich oils of roasting pork。 Someone nearby was cooking out tonight。
The smell of barbecue made his stomach roll over； then growl： he was either sick or starved。 Years of institutional food had blurred the two sensations。 The Boys' Home was not quite Dickensian； but second helpings were neither kindly looked upon by the cafeteria ladies nor much desired by the boys。
Maybe by now Missing Mile had somewhere to eat besides that greasy diner。 But if not； the diner would do。 Trevor decided to take a walk through downtown。 He couldn't go out to the house yet。 Not at night。 He was ready for anything； but he was still scared。
He would be there tomorrow； for the twenty…year reunion。
Trevor only hoped he was invited this time。
Kinsey knew tonight was going to suck。 Rima was scheduled to work； and Rima was gone； finding someone else to rip off； having raw meat scraped out of her womb； coking up her little brain until it spun like a whirligig； or maybe all of the above。
So Kinsey would be working by himself。 Terry Buckett's new band Gumbo was playing。 Owner and manager of the Whirling Disc record store； Terry also played drums and sang whenever he could get a gig。 Gumbo was one of the Yew's biggest draws now that Lost Souls？ were on the road； and it would be a busy night。
To distract himself； Kinsey decided to have a dinner special。 It would make him even busier； but he loved feeding his kids。 He ran through his limited repertoire。 Curry？ 。 。 。 no； it would take too long 。 。 。 lentil soup？ no； he'd had that one twice last week 。 。 。 gumbo； for the band 。 。 。 but his skills weren't up to it； and there was nowhere to get fresh seafood； and he never had been convinced you could make good gumbo anywhere but New Orleans。 The Mississippi River water gave it that special flavor； maybe。 At last Kinsey decided tonight would be Japanese Night。
He hiked home and put together a quick broth from some elderly vegetables and a few pork bones in his freezer； loaded it into his car； and drove slowly back into town so as not to slosh it。 The railroad tracks were tricky； but he managed them with aplomb。 In town； he stopped at the little grocery next to Farmers Hardware and bought twenty packages of Oodles of Noodles and several bunches of green onions。 The rain had stopped； which meant it would be even busier。
Back at the Yew； Kinsey took down the chalkboard over the bar； selected a piece of purple chalk； and with a flourish Wrote JAPANESE NOODLE SOUP！ 1。00！
If anyone ordered the special； Kinsey would ladle up a bowl of his homemade broth； pop in the noodles； throw away the sodium…laden 〃flavor packet；〃 and zap the whole thing in the microwave he kept behind the bar。 The green onions were for a garnish； and he set to chopping them into small； fragrant rounds。 It was getting near eight。 The band wouldn't start until ten； but the kids often started drifting in this early to drink and eat and talk。 Sometimes he opened the club at five for happy hour； but he hadn't been happy enough today。
An hour later the Sacred Yew was nearly full。 Admission was free until ten。 After that he would have to find someone to work the door。 That was never hard： all the door people had to do was collect money； shoot the shit； and watch the band for free。 If they were of age they got a free beer too。 The club served no alcohol but beer…bottled； canned； and draft。 Still； the vagaries of North Carolina law made the Yew a bar and forbade the presence of those under twenty…one。
For the place to be an all…ages club…as Kinsey had intended all along…it must qualify as a restaurant as well。 Hence the noodle soup； the sandwiches； the odds and ends of snacks he served。 At first making the food had been a bother。 Then he grew to like it； now his cookbook collection was rapidly expanding。 Regular customers gave them to him all the time； and Kinsey chose to take these as a pliment。
Some of the kids he knew； the ones from Missing Mile and surrounding areas； most of whom attended a nearby Quaker school called Windy Hill。 There was a public high school too； but the kids there were mostly metalheads and shitkickers； Kinsey knew some of them； had even helped them work on their cars； but they didn't like the music at the Yew。
The kids who came here were of a more artistic bent； clothed in bright ragtag colors or ripped T…shirts and bat boots or chic； sleek black； according to their various philosophies and passions。 Some dyed their hair and cropped it； some let their hair grow long and tied it with colored ribbons； some simply shoved it behind their ears and didn't give a shit； or pretended not to。 There were poets and painters； firebrands and fuckups； innocents and wantons。 There were Missing Mile townies and college kids from Raleigh and Chapel Hill； the ones with legal IDs and money for beer； the ones who paid his bills。 There were younger kids furtively fumbling with flasks； adding liquor gotten from God knows where to their Cokes from the bar。 Unless this was done in a particularly obvious or obnoxious manner； Kinsey usually turned a blind eye。
He had just hooked up a new keg of Budweiser when Terry Buckett sat down at the bar。 The band had done their sound check earlier； and it was obvious they'd been practicing： they were tighter than ever； Terry's voice clear and strong； R。J。's bass line thunderous。 〃What do you call that style of music？〃 Kinsey had asked after listening to a couple of numbers。
〃Swamp rock；〃 Terry had said with a grin。
Now he grinned up at Kinsey again； stoned and amiable； muscular drummer's forearms propped on the bar； tie…dyed bandanna wrapped around his dark curly hair。 〃Noodle soup； huh？ Where'd you e up with that？〃
〃A cookbook called The Asian Menu；〃 said Kinsey。 〃With certain variations。〃
〃I'll bet。 Well； let's give it a try。 Gimme a Natty Boho too。〃 National Bohemian was the Yew's bar brand。 At a dollar…fifty a bottle it was a hot seller。 Kinsey opened a frosty bottle and set it on the bar in front of Terry； then started preparing the soup。
〃Talked to Steve and Ghost today；〃 Terry said。
〃Yeah？ They call the store？〃 Steve and Ghost were the two members of the band Lost Souls？； the spray…painted lyric WE ARE NOT AFRAID was from 〃World；〃 the song they always used to close their set。 Steve played a dark； fierce guitar； Ghost had a voice like golden gravel running along the bottom of a clear mountain stream。 A couple of weeks ago they had returned from a gig in New York and promptly left town again for a cross…country road trip in Steve's old T…bird。 San Francisco was their ultimate destination； but they would plan their route as they traveled； and they might be gone for as much as a year。
〃Yeah。 The new guy answered； and Steve goes This is John Thomas from the IRS calling for Mr。 Buckett。' I about pissed myself when he handed me the phone。 That little bastard 。 。 。〃 Terry laughed and shook his head。
〃Are they doing okay？〃
〃Sure。 They're in Texas now。 Steve said they played at a coffeehouse in Austin and the folkies loved 'em。 Sold some tapes too。 Maybe I ought to check out Austin。 You ever been？〃
〃No。 One of my favorite underground cartoonists came from there； though。 Bobby McGee。〃
Terry frowned。 〃McGee？ Wasn't he the guy who 。 。 。〃
〃Yup。〃
〃That house is still standing out on Violin Road；〃 Terry mused。 〃I was only eight when the murders happened； but I remember。 They say it's haunted。〃
〃Of course they do。 It might even be true。 But his ic Birdland was brilliant； right up there with Cru