“You know,” Dan said, “sometimes you’re worse than Cyrus.”
Antigone smiled. “At no time in my life have I ever been worse than Cyrus. Maybe—maybe—when I fed him your goldfish family, but I was only four.”
A heavy drip caught Dan’s ear and he flinched, quickly grinding it dry on his shoulder. “Cy skipped out of school today, didn’t he?”
Antigone scrunched her face and looked away.
“I should know,” Dan continued. “If I were halfway good at my job, I already would. But we both know that I’m not, and I don’t.” He looked over at his sister. “Just tell me. Did Cyrus ditch? Why would anyone skip the last day of school?”
“You’re not bad at your job,” Antigone said quietly. She knew she was deflecting, but it was true. “It’s not even your job. You should be off at college, not stuck with us in a rotten motel.”
Dan’s jaw retightened. Antigone straightened, brushed back her hair, and popped open one of the cases around her neck. Carefully, like she was handling some fragile newborn creature, she pulled out her ancient silent-movie camera. The camera was small, mostly brown, and textured like leather. Three generations of Smiths had worn silver smooth finger tracks around its skin. Rotating the heavy little box in her hands, Antigone pinched a lever on the side and wound it tight. Then she leaned forward and pointed the small lens at her brother.
“Smile, Danny,” she said. “I’m putting you at the end of the reel with Mom.” She flipped another lever, and invisible gears chattered, spooling eight-millimeter film.
“You need a new camera,” Dan said.
“You need a new car.” Antigone slowly panned across the windshield. The wipers were so out of sync, they were bound to tangle soon. But it didn’t matter. She knew the road, and they were in the final bend. One more corner and they’d see the Archer in the distance.
“Home again,” Antigone said.
Blurry through the storm, she could just make out something bright and golden. Squinting, she leaned even closer to the windshield. It was the Lady on her pole, the Archer Motel squatting behind her.
Dan nearly drifted into the other lane. “What’s going on? She’s lit. Is that a truck? Someone’s parked in the entrance. How is she lit?”
The front of the truck was yellow, but anything wet would have looked yellow beneath the glowing Lady. The truck’s bed was dominated by an awkward wooden camper.
As the station wagon slowed, Antigone could just make out two shapes in the parking lot. One of them began hopping.
“Tell me that’s not Cyrus,” Dan said, stopping the car. “What’s he doing out in this?”
Antigone pointed her camera toward her younger brother, shirtless in the rain. He was running. And something was sparking in the air behind him.
Antigone leaned forward. “Maybe he’s—”
Snarled lightning ripped the world in half. Thunder shook the car. Deaf, blinking, Antigone slammed back into her door, banged her head against the window, and dropped her camera. Dan yelped, punching the gas and the brake at the same time. The station wagon rocked and smoked in the quivering air.
Rain drummed on the roof. Antigone’s hands were shaking, and her eyes were seared with jagged white light. She could hear Dan breathing hard beside her. The world came slowly back into focus. The two wipers had grabbed on to each other. Now they twitched in place. Through the distorting streams on the windshield, Antigone watched a blurry man in the parking lot pull a small bag out of the truck and walk slowly toward the motel.
Dan sat up. “Is Cyrus okay?”
Antigone squinted. “Don’t know,” she said. She cranked down her window. Cool rain spattered on her face, but she hardly noticed.
The old man looked back at the golden sign. He nodded. Then he waved at the station wagon and disappeared into the courtyard.
Antigone kicked open her door and stepped into the road.
Cyrus lay panting on his stomach just inside the motel’s glass doors. Grit from the doormat was clinging to his skin, but he didn’t care. The world was swirling.
Cyrus tried to lift his head, then dropped it back to the ground. He couldn’t move, not just yet. Even lying on the floor, his body felt wobbly in the adrenaline aftermath of the lightning strike.
Slow, even breaths. In … out. His ears were ringing. Not ringing. More than that. They were crowded with a thousand screaming ants. He hadn’t known how high-pitched an ant’s screaming could be.
He shoved his knuckles into his ears. Opening and closing his jaw almost helped. False yawns.
Behind him, the front door opened. Footsteps, and a moment later, Cyrus was staring at a pair of very creased, very greased cowboy boots dotted with beads of water. One of them tapped his shoulder with its blunt toe.
“You dead or alive? I need the key to my room.”
Cyrus tried to stand up but only managed to roll onto his back. He couldn’t even bring himself to brush the clinging hair and gravel and poly fibers off his wet chest.
“Dead,” he said. His voice was distant, slurring. “Pretty sure.”
William Skelton grinned down at him. From the floor, the man’s nostrils looked large enough to house bats. “I need my room.” His voice was all breath, and his breath was all glass and grit.
Cyrus closed his eyes. He might throw up.
A bag dropped onto Cyrus’s stomach. “Room one-eleven. Fetch the key, or I’ll open the door myself.”
Coughing, Cyrus shoved the bag onto the floor and elbowed himself up.
“What—” He swallowed. “What just happened? The bug … thing …” Cyrus stopped, blinking. He didn’t even know what to ask.
The man slowly lowered himself into a crouch. Water beaded off his leather jacket and gloves. Cyrus cocked his head and squinted at him out of one eye, trying to focus. The man’s skin had moved beyond the wrinkles of age, beyond scruff and widened pores and spider veins. His face was smooth and polished with use, like the seat of an old wooden stool. He smiled, and somehow his cheeks didn’t crack.
“Kid,” he said, and he reached out and squeezed Cyrus’s shoulder. “You’ll see stranger than that soon enough. Now, I didn’t come this far and watch you burn a lightning bug to ask twice. Do you want this little roadside dive to come on down around your ears? Room one-eleven.”
Cyrus knocked the man’s hand off his shoulder, rolled onto his knees, and managed to stand. The room was spinning, but he squared his feet, crossed his arms, and tried to look stable.
“Taken,” he said. “One-eleven is taken. I’d tell you to come back later, but it will be taken then, too. We have lots of rooms. Pick another one. My brother will make you a waffle in the morning.”
“Your brother,” the man said. “Daniel. The most like your father? The one I should have been talking to on the phone?”
Aluminum scraped and the front door let in the sound of slapping rain.
“Cy?” Antigone squeezed in. “You okay? What’s going on?”
Dan slipped in behind her.
Cyrus looked at his sister. “You should have waited for me. I wasn’t that late.” He looked at Dan’s dripping brown hair. “At least you’re wet, too.”
“Not as wet as you,” Dan said. “Get a shirt on.” He turned toward the old man and stuck out his hand. “Sorry about my brother,” he said. “He gets primitive when we’re not around. I’m Daniel. You need a room?”
The old man grinned as they shook hands. “Daniel Smith. We’ve met before.”
Dan stood perfectly still, his eyes careening around the old man’s face. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember …” His voice cracked and trailed away.
The man shrugged. “You were young. Your father called me Bones; your mother called me Billy.”