You say: See what? Nadi says: This many! She holds up all ten fingers. Nayomi says: Wow! That's a LOT! You think you can count even more if we try again? Nadi's face turns grave. She focuses, nods, collects air. She dives into another round. To you, Nayomi says: That bus. Robert, ducking down for a better view, says: What bus? Pointing, Nayomi says: That one. You say: What about it? Nayomi says: Go faster. You say: I can't. I swear. I'll lose control. Nayomi says: Try harder. Robert says: Do what the fuck she wants. Jesus. Crying, you realize Celan is still in the cargo space. You look up in the rearview mirror to check on him. He's nowhere in sight. Cel? you call out, trying to keep the tears out of your voice. Cel? Come on up. Nayomi says: You want to go faster. You want to pull up alongside. You grip the wheel so hard your knuckles ache like arthritis. You ease down on the pedal. You crest 145 kilometers. 150. The engine starts whirring oddly. Then you have to throw up. Nayomi says: When I was thirteen, twelve or thirteen, I thought I'd live forever and ever. I thought I'd be the exception that proves the rule. Everyone does, right? It's a cliché. But Renato? He helped me understand. How the end of the plot is always the same. No matter what you do, it's always the same. The only difference is when and how you reach it. Some people get to know in advance. Some don't. Some are brave and take charge. Others are cowards and do nothing. But think of it. All that effort trying to believe in those children's stories. The Son. The Holy Ghost. All that money churches spend to get you to stop being scared. They're the most successful corporations in history. Pay, pray, obey. That's what Renato says. Pay, pray, obey. Renato says religion is just this huge spectacle designed to con good people into doing bad things. The Crusades. The Inquisition. Only in the end it doesn't mean a thing because whatever you do the story turns out the same. You're here and then you're not. No burning lakes. You finish being you, but when it happens you're not even around to experience the transition. You know what Nietzsche said about the afterlife? He said in heaven all the interesting people are missing… Oh, wow. Renato was right. This shit really does make you feel like a cartoon. Hey, look! Look at all the people! You can make out the words in big red letters on the bus's white flank: Turistico Romeo. You say: You didn't plan all this. You didn't know we'd be right here right now. Nayomi says: You plan some things. You let other things just take place. It's like believing in God, only not. Can you imagine we're actually doing this? Seeing the moment begin to coalesce around her, Nayomi becomes increasingly excited, giddy. She peers out the windshield between Robert and you, cranes her neck to take in everything. It's like… it's like we're flying without planes, she says. It's like remembering forward. Look. You can see their faces! Wave at the passengers, Nadi! Cheeks fake-distended with air, Nadi leans over and waves as you inch up level with the back two or three rows. This many! she shouts, holding up all ten fingers twice. Ausgezeichnet! shouts Nayomi. The first tourist, an old man with a drastically furrowed face, catches sight of your daughter. He has been resting his cheek on his fist, staring dully out the large side window. The instant Nadi enters his field of vision, his features melt into brightness. He waves back, first using only his fingers, coyly, then soon employing his whole hand, his whole arm, clownlike. He sees me! Nadi shouts, waving harder. He sees me! Nayomi says: He does! The man leans forward and taps the shoulder of the old woman sitting in the seat in front of him. She's been talking to someone beside her, someone you can't see. She turns to look at what has snagged the old man's attention and you see she's wearing so much makeup she looks like a gypsy fortuneteller in a Coney Island booth. One of her front teeth is missing. She gives Nadi a wide smile. Seconds, and five or six tourists are pressed to the glass, waving, making faces. Nadi is delighted. She waves back. She makes faces in response to the faces they're making. Robert proclaims to Nayomi, apropos of nothing: River Edge isn't even in New Jersey. It's in Delaware. And there are no parks. It's just all these shopping malls and expensive cars. So fuck you twice. Celan, suddenly aware of the festivities, shouts from the cargo space: I'm coming up! I'm coming up! You call over your shoulder, trying to disguise the tears in your voice, your stuffed runny nose: Watch your step, hon! Nadi says: Look at them! Look! Nayomi says: They must be thinking what a beautiful little girl you are! Vigilant, wobbly, Celan eases himself up into a hunker, steadies himself against the ceiling padding, slides one leg over the seatback. It is when he is balancing there like a miniature cowboy in a miniature saddle that it happens. The silver sports car suspended at the corner of your vision veers in front of you. You hit the brakes. Celan flies into Nayomi's back. Nayomi jerks forward. Nadi screams and you hear her body thunk against the back of your seat. Your impression is that Robert moves before thinking about moving, sees his opportunity, tries to lunge for Nayomi, for that backpack between her legs, but he's forgotten he's wearing his seatbelt. He fetches up sharply like a dog that's forgotten it's chained. Your car rocks side-to-side, steering wheel a violent living thing trying to wrench free of your grip, and then your Saab commences a leisurely careening across traffic. Horns startle awake. Brakes screech. Another car brushes Robert's door and there is a metallic jolt completely out of proportion to the movement. You raise your arms to protect your face, and your world arrives in a series of jump cuts. A guardrail. Another bone-grinding crash. The windshield dissolving into an ice storm around you. An instant of concentrated silence. Then a wallop from an unexpected angle, from above you, the roof crunching down, the beige grass, the wheat sky, the beige grass, the noise of sizzling bacon, your Saab plummeting through undergrowth. You leave yourself. You watch as a variety of you strolls into the local bagel shop on Kinderkamack Avenue back home on a summer Sunday morning, cool luminosity giving way to a rush of bready sweetness, parting your lips to ask for onion with cream cheese, and then you are canted on your side, still strapped in, fumbling for the buckle that will release you, your mouth full of blood. You swallow. More blood oozes in. Someone has stacked cinderblocks on your chest. Above you Robert dangles down sideways, groaning, dazed, his face and hair gooey redblack. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, feed all your effort into your hands. Your left one isn't working. That's the problem. That's why you can't get your seatbelt undone. You're fumbling, only your left arm is hanging down at a preposterous angle. You think maybe the sound you hear is simply barking, hounds in the distance, then they refine into human shouts. They're moving down the embankment toward you. A moist wheezing rises from deep within your chest. You begin to appreciate where you are, how you have been delivered here, and, even as this instant overflows you, you attempt rotating your head just far enough to catch a glimpse of your kids. This is what the universe becomes for you. You try to speak to them. You try to tell them everything is okay. Your words emerge as a long sibilance. You stop. You don't want to frighten them. You don't want to make things worse than they are. You listen to your ragged breath. You are speaking, even though your mouth isn't moving. It's all right, sweet ones, you are saying. It's all right. You hear them? A few seconds. A few seconds, and they'll start making everything better. They'll reach inside. They'll wrap their arms around you. They'll lift you out. The violent blueness of the flames washing across the hood.