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ink； sometimes he would trace it into patterns with his finger or the nib of a pen。
But he hadn't done it for years and years。 He thought the last time had been on his twentieth birthday； two years 。 out of state's custody； the ill winds of adulthood and poverty blowing down his neck。 It was as if America had begun the decade of the eighties by shattering some great cosmic mirror； except that the seven years of bad luck hadn't ended yet。 The wizened； evil…faced dybbuk in the White House had been as alien a being as Trevor could imagine； a shriveled yet hideously animated puppet thrust into power by the same shadowy forces that had controlled the world since Trevor was five； forces he could not control； could barely see or begin to understand。
He had spent the night of his twentieth birthday wandering around New York City； riding the subways alone； slamming down coffee and cappuccino and espresso in every dive he passed； finally achieving an exaggerated state of awareness that went beyond perception into hallucination。 He ended up huddled in a grove in Washington Square Park； furtively slicing at his wrist with a dull and rusty blade he dug out of his pocket； trying to let some of this electric energy out with the blood before it rattled him to pieces。 Toward dawn he fell into restless sleep and dreamed of angels telling him to do violence…to himself？ to someone else？ he could not remember when he woke。
He didn't know why he had stopped cutting himself after that。 It had just stopped working： the pain couldn't e out that way anymore。
Trevor sat up straight； shook himself。 He'd nearly started to doze here in the gathering storm on his family's grave。 He saw an image of his flayed wrist above a white sheet of paper； dark sluggish blood making Rorschach blots on the page。
The first drops of rain were hitting the spongy carpet of grass and pine needles； dark streaking and blotching on the headstones。 Lightning sketched across the sky； searing jagged blue； then thunder rolling in like a slow tide。 Trevor closed his sketchbook and slid it into his backpack。 He could work on the Bird strip later； at the house。
The rain began to e down in great gusting sheets as he left the graveyard。 By the time he reached the road； the ground was already wet enough to sink and squelch under his feet； muddy water oozing into his socks and sneakers。 The trees bowed low over the road； then lashed the wind…torn sky。
A ways down the road； Trevor realized that he had barely glanced at the headstone as he left； had not touched it at all past the first initial contact。 It was numb； dead； like the fragments of memory and bone that lay beneath it。 Maybe they had been there once； but as their flesh decayed and crumbled in the sodden Southern ground； their essences had leached away too。 Maybe he could find his family in Missing Mile； or something of them。 But not where their bodies lay。
He had plodded most of the way back to town when he heard a car ing slowly up the road behind him； grinding over the coarse wet gravel。 He thought briefly of trying to thumb； just as quickly decided against it。 He was already soaked through； nobody would want his soggy ass on their upholstery。
Now the car was close enough that he could hear its wipers sluicing back and forth across the windshield。 The sound triggered a memory so distant it was barely there： lying in the back seat of his father's car one rainy afternoon in Texas； listening to the shush…skree of the wipers and watching the rain course down the windows。 One of the great San Francisco contingent of cartoonists…Trevor couldn't remember which one…had been passing through town； and Bobby was showing him the sights of 1970 Austin； whatever they may have been。 The other cartoonist was busily rolling joint after joint； but that didn't stop him from running his mouth as much as Bobby。 For Trevor in the back seat everything blurred together like different hues of watercolor paint： the fortable sound of the adults' voices； the sweet herbal tang of the pot smoke； the afternoon city light filtering through a veil of rain。
Momma must have been at home with the baby。 Didi had been sick with one thing or another for a good part of his first year。 Momma worried over him； fixed him special nasty…tasting organic mush； kept watch over him as he slept。 Just as if she thought it mattered； just as if they all lived in a universe where Didi was going to grow up。
Trevor kept walking； did not register that the car had pulled up behind him until a horn blipped。 He turned and found himself staring at the headlights and grillwork of his father's old car； the one whose back seat he had dozed on that rainy day in Austin； the one they had driven to Missing Mile。 The two…toned Rambler； or its twin； plete with a crimp that had graced its front bumper since 1970。
His father's car； the windshield opaque with reflected light； the windows obscured by beads and drips of rain。 Bobby's car ing down Burnt Church Road； from the direction of the graveyard。 And the window on the driver's side was slowly cranking down。
Trevor thought there might be tears on his face。 Or maybe it was only the rain； dripping out of his sodden hair。
He stepped forward to meet the car and whatever was inside it。
Chapter Seven
Just after dawn； Zach left his car in the parking lot of a prefab pink motel and walked out onto the dirtiest beach he had ever seen。
He'd kept on a steady northeastern course all night。 Shooting past Pensacola at two； he had intended to go straight on east to Jacksonville but had been diverted by a highway sign pointing out the turnoff to a town called Two Egg。 Zach might never set foot in Florida again； he had to see Two Egg before he left。
But the town was eerie even for rural Florida in the small hours of the morning。 The buildings on the downtown strip all seemed to have been built in the early fifties； that time of false prosperity and fake space…age optimism。 There was that look of the Plexiglas pillar and chromium arch； the kidney shape and the fashionable sign of the atom。 But now these fabulous structures were abandoned； left behind by the chill silicon void of the millennium's end。 Their aqua paint was faded and peeling； their once…wondrous swoops and starbursts and streamlined angles rusting； falling away。
The buildings seemed to sway and nod over the street as if trying to pull Zach into their sterile dream。 The street was full of trash； crumpled fast…food bags and torn newspapers drifting like aimless ghosts。 The swamp was reclaiming the town on all sides； stagnant tongues of water lapped at the sidewalks； cattails grew in every vacant lot。 Altogether； the town made Zach think of the opening helicopter landing scene of Romero's Day of the Dead as filmed on the ruined set of The Jetsons： desolation in which rotting corpses might rise； set against a backdrop as garish and sad as a forgotten cartoon。
He got out of Two Egg in a hurry。 Thirty minutes later he crossed the state line into Georgia。
Now he was on Tybee Island； according to the signs he'd been nearly too bleary…eyed to read by the time he finally hit the coast。 Just east of Savannah； Tybee was a cheap resort area frequented by redneck and middle…class family groups all summer。 The island was honeybed with seaside motels； fried seafood shacks； shell stands； and those weird； ubiquitous little Indian boutiques with their unvarying inventory of gauzy cotton clothes； incense； out…of…date rock posters； cheap jewelry； and drug paraphernalia。
This early； nearly everything was closed。 Zach paid cash for a room at the Sea Castle Motor Inn； parked his car behind the Pepto…Bismol…colored building； and walked down to the beach。
The Atlantic Ocean looked dark and murky； not quite slate； not quite green。 The foam that laced the breakers was like whipped cream squeezed out of a can； thin and unappetizing； unnatural…looking。 And the sand…a hundred times worse than the chalky whitish stuff on the Gulf … gray and wet and heavy； like silt； like sludge。 Zach nudged a heap of it with the toe of his sneaker and uncovered a broken plastic shovel； the wrapper from a Payday bar； the gritty； sticky wad of a used condom。 He kicked sand back over the whole mess and watched it fall in a dirty spray； only half hiding the trash。
He had thought the ocean would soothe his jangling nerves。 Instead the sight of it endlessly heaving and churning made him feel tight inside； lost somehow； as if this was not the place he had meant to e to at all。 He had also thought there would be other teenagers on the beach； that he would be able to blend in and look like part of some holiday crowd。 But at this early hour the beach was nearly empty； and the few people he saw were middle…aged couples or terribly young parents with herds of tiny children。 Even when he took his shirt off and let the fledgling sun beat on his pale back and shoulders； Zach felt about as inconspicuous as Sid Vicious at a Baptist covered…dish supper。
He was beginning to realize just how little he knew about life outside of New Orleans。 But that was all right： with intelligence and intuition； he could hack it。
Hacking was defined as