is this a kind of madness? When Mike warned you that your brain might be unreliable, is this what he meant? Is this just the instability of your jailbroken operating system, manifesting itself as psychosis? Is that why colors and sounds have become almost unbearably overwhelming to you recently?
But even if it is, what choice do you have? What future does Abbie herself envisage for you, once you’ve brought Danny to her? Does she imagine the two of you will bring him up together in hippie-esque peace and harmony on her low-impact organic homestead? Or are you merely a means to an end for her, just as you were for Tim: a convenient way of delivering her son, to be switched off and stored somewhere like an unneeded vacuum cleaner once you’ve fulfilled your function?
That’s the crucial question, it seems to you: If you don’t kill her, what’s the alternative?
You decide you’ll wait to see what Abbie has to say about that, before making the final decision.
80
It’s a three-hour drive up the Oregon coast to Coos Bay. You travel through places with names redolent of old westerns: Pistol River, Gold Beach, Red Rock Point. The towns get smaller and the gaps between them expand. Even the sky seems to get vaster, somehow. The minibus shrinks, an ant crawling along a crack in the rock.
Coos Bay is, once again, the end of the line. But this time there’s no onward bus to wait for. You’re still sixty miles south of Northhaven, but there’s no way to get there.
You sit in a diner with Danny while you consider your options. Your head hurts all the time now and you can’t come up with anything. Then a family of four comes in. You take one look and immediately know that the younger child has autism. He’s walking on tiptoes, his hands shake erratically in front of his face, and his eyes are bruised looking and deep-set.
The mother looks at Danny, then at you. A glance passes between you—not a smile, exactly, but a kind of acknowledgment, a weary recognition between fellow foot soldiers.
“Hi there,” you say.
An hour later you’re in the back of their Winnebago, watching the coast speed by. Noah drives while you and Annie swap autism stories.
“…For about six months, Graham was obsessed with the beep the washing machine made when it finished its cycle. About a minute before the end, he’d know and put his hands over his ears. He’d been counting down in his head! Then he found an easier way of stopping it from beeping: He’d just go and pull the door open halfway through the wash.”
“With Danny it was fire alarms. He hated knowing one might go off at any moment. So he used to go and set them off himself. I guess he figured that way at least he was in control.”
“I remember coming into school one time and hearing the teacher say, ‘Graham, we don’t stick our hands in the urinal. It’s not a waterfall.’ ”
“For ages Danny hated public toilets, because of the noise of the hand dryers. I used to stand outside the men’s bathroom, waiting for the screams, then march in and retrieve him. You should have seen some of the looks those men gave me.”
“When I told my parents Graham was autistic, they thought I said artistic. We were talking at cross-purposes for about three months.”
Graham and Danny politely ignore each other. But you like to think they pick up on the fact the two of you are getting along.
Noah offers to make a detour to drop you off right by Northhaven, which, according to the information you’ve memorized, is north of the town, between the 101 and the ocean. Gratefully, you accept. When you get there, you almost miss the tiny, hand-carved sign. If the rural back road you’re on hadn’t been so small, forcing Noah to drive slowly, he’d have gone right past it.
“I don’t think I can get the Winnie up that,” he says, peering at the narrow track.
“Don’t worry. Here’s fine. And thank you. You’ve both been very kind.”
After they drive away, it feels very quiet. You turn and look at the track.
Journey’s end. You can’t believe you’ve found it at last.
You put the SIM card in the phone and send a message. At entrance to Northhaven. Where now?
There’s hardly any signal. But the reply comes instantly. You’ll find me.
“Okay, Danny. We’re nearly there now.”
“Sodor station. All change,” he announces.
You pick up the bags and