Page 98 of The Pocket Pair

All three boys shake their heads with comic force and speed. Grant bites back a smile. And then we get to work. Brady and Bryan take one of the cannons while John and I take the other. He yanks out trash while I hold the bag open. Grant starts pulling weeds from Mrs. Fleming’s cracked sidewalk, keeping one eye on the possum.

“They don’t carry rabies, you know,” I tell him in a low voice.

“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” he asks.

Ten minutes, a pair of broken glasses, and a losing lottery ticket later, we’re just about done. Both trash bags are almost full. Cannons can hold more trash than you think.

“Ours is empty,” Brady says, tossing his gloves in the trash bag.

John peers into ours. “I think there’s a soda can or something still back there. I can’t reach.”

“I’ll get it,” I say, and John steps aside. I try not to think about all the gross junk we’ve already pulled out. Or the fact that my arm is inside a CANNON. The final bit of trash, which does feel like an aluminum soda can, is really jammed in there. I can’t get a good hold.

“Where’d you get these cannons?” Grant asks, leaning against the porch railing, still watching Genevieve like he fully expects her to do a WWF body slam on him any moment.

Mrs. Fleming pats the back of the cannon I’m working on. “My Nate bought these for us when we moved in. He was a navy man,” she tells him. “It was his little taste of the sea.”

“Do they still work?” Brady asks, looking a little bit too interested.

“No,” Mrs. Fleming says.

“Are you sure?” Grant asks. “Because that might be a hazard if they do.”

“They shoot cannonballs and aren’t loaded,” Mrs. Fleming says. “Plus, they wouldn’t fire without gunpower packed in. See?”

Something about that last comment makes me jerk my head up. Just in time to see Mrs. Fleming holding a lighter near what must be the fuse. I yank my arm out of there faster than I would from a lion’s mouth, but John who must not have seen the lighter, steps closer, peering inside, just as there’s a loud sizzle.

Sparks fly. Genevieve the possum falls over fake-dead. And I only have time to shove John out of the way before there’s a deafening sound, a blast, and something collides with my chest.

I’m flat on my back on the sidewalk. My ears are ringing. My nose burns. And there’s an overwhelming pressure and burning in my torso.

The last thing I hear before things get really dark is Mrs. Fleming saying, “I guess they do fire! Oh my—that’s a lot of blood.”

CHAPTER 29

Val

I don’t want to answer when Winnie calls. I REALLY don’t. Definitely not when she calls immediately again. And then a third time.

She and James and Kyoko left for some kind of craft brewing thing in San Antonio this morning, and I’ve been peacefully wallowing in my misery on her couch ever since. Not answering calls. Not checking Neighborly to find out what people think about my breakup. My main goal is to create an actual rut on the couch before they get back tomorrow.

It’s a lofty goal, but I have faith in my wallowing abilities.

When Winnie calls a fifth time, then a sixth, I finally cave, pressing pause on Criminal Minds. I’ve gone back to bingeing the show that scares the heck out of me, but makes my life feel like a carousel ride with cotton candy by comparison.

“Yes, I’m fine. And no, I don’t want to talk,” I say instead of hello.

Winnie’s response is breathless and shaky. “Val, it’s Chevy.”

My whole body seizes up. Because I know this tone. I’ve never heard it from Winnie, but I know the panicked sound of an absolute emergency.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“Yes? I don’t know. He had an accident of some kind on the job—I don’t really understand what happened. But we can’t get back for a few hours, and Chevy’s all alone at the hospital. Val—I know this is awful of me to ask, considering, but would you please go? I need someone to tell me he’s okay. He was in surgery when they called me.”

Surgery? My stomach is a tightly wound coil of dread.

“I’m on my way.” I’m out the door before we hang up, still in my wrinkled wallowing clothes because what I’m wearing doesn’t matter when Chevy is in surgery.

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