A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,26
were the only way to force open the stuck garage door. I promised Hugh, Horace, Enoch, and Claire that I’d be back for them in a couple of hours. Horace said he wasn’t interested in buying new clothes, anyway.
“The day denim became acceptable as daily wear,” he said, side-eyeing me, “contemporary fashion lost all credibility. The modern runway looks like a hobo camp.”
“You have to have new clothes,” said Claire. “Miss Peregrine says.”
Enoch scowled. “Miss Peregrine says, Miss Peregrine says! You sound like a windup toy.”
We left them squabbling and went to the garage. With some duct tape, baling wire, and a little spot-welding by Emma, we managed to reattach the driver’s-side door; it didn’t open or close, but we were a lot less likely to get pulled over by curious police officers with four doors than with just three. When we were finished we all piled in. A minute later we were winding down the banyan-shaded road that traced the spine of Needle Key.
Big houses loomed on either side of us, glimpses of beach in the gaps between. It was the first time my friends had seen so much of this world by day, and they were quiet as they drank it in, the girls glued to the windows in back, Millard’s breath fogging the glass on the passenger’s side. I tried to imagine what it looked like to them, these sights that had long ago faded into near invisibility for me.
The key narrowed as we drove south, the big houses giving way to smaller ones, then to colonies of squat condos from the seventies, gaudy signs announcing their names: POLYNESIAN ISLES, PARADISE SHORES, FANTASY ISLAND. As we hit the commercial zone, more blasts of color: pink-roofed knickknack shops that sold sunscreen and beer cozies; bright yellow bait stores; striped-awning real estate offices. And bars, of course, their rows of tiki torches dancing and doors flung open to let the sea breeze in and the creaky warble of Jimmy Buffett karaoke covers out, echoing all the way down to the water’s edge. The speed limit was so glacial, and the road so clogged with sun-drunk beachgoers, that there was time to sing along as you passed by. None of it had changed in my lifetime. Like a long-running play, you could set your watch to the movements of the actors and the timing of the set pieces, the same every day: the European tourists red as lobsters, wilting in the pencil-thin shade of cabbage palms; the leathery fishermen standing sentry along the bridge, hats and bellies drooping, casting lines into the shallows beside their Igloo coolers.
Leaving the key, we rose above the shimmering bay, tires humming over the bridge’s metal grates. Then we descended to the mainland side, an archipelago of mini-malls and shopping plazas encircled by oceanic parking lots.
“What a strange landscape,” said Bronwyn, breaking the silence. “Why did Abe move here, of all places in America?”
“Florida used to be one of the best areas for peculiars to hide,” said Millard. “Before the hollow wars, anyway. It was the winter home of all the circuses, and the whole middle of the state is a great trackless swamp. They said anybody, no matter how peculiar, could find a place to blend in here—or to vanish.”
We left behind the beige heart of town and headed out toward the boonies. Past the shuttered outlet mall, past the half-built housing development being slowly reclaimed by underbrush, loomed the biggest of the big-box stores. That’s where we were headed. I turned down Piney Woods Road, the mile-long corridor along which all the town’s nursing homes, over-fifty-five trailer parks, and retirement communities had been built. The road was lined with unsubtle billboards for hospitals, urgent care clinics, and mortuary parks. Everyone in town called Piney Woods Road the Highway to Heaven.
I started to brake as we approached a large sign depicting a circle of pine trees, and it wasn’t until I’d actually made the turn that I caught myself. There were several routes to the shopping center we were going to, but by force of habit I’d chosen this one, and because I’d let my mind wander, my subconscious had made the turn for me. It was the entrance to Circle Village, my grandfather’s subdivision.
“Oops, wrong way,” I said, stopping the car and putting it into reverse.
But before I could turn around and get back onto the road, Emma said, “Wait a minute. Jacob—wait.”
My hand lingered on the gearshift as a little wave of